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GRAY     MIST 


A     NOVEL 


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BY   THE    AUTHOR   OF 

"THE   MARTYRDOM   OF   AN    EMPRESS" 

OPFICIER  DE  L'ORDRB  DE  L'INSTRUCTION  PUBLIQUE  DE  FRANCE 


ILLUSTRATED  WITH  WATER -COLOR   DRAWINGS 
BY  THE  AUTHOR 


HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 
NEW      YORK       AND       LONDON 

1906 


Copyright,  1906,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 
Published  October,  1906. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

THE    ROAD   TO   THE    PARDON Frontispiece 

AL    LOAR'S    LITTLE    WAYSIDE    INN Facing  p.    80 

THE    CURE'S    LITTLE    POSTERN    DOOR "        162 

THE    BACK    OF    LANAIK's    HOUSE "        230 


2135704 


GRAY   MIST 


ARMORICA   FIDES 

GRAY  land  of  gorse  and  granite,  to  my  thought 

Thou  risest  ever  in  a  breath  divine, 
Fragrance  of  violets  in  sea-weed  caught, 

Peat-smoke  and  heather,  and  the  scent  of  pine. 

Cornouaille  and  Treguier,  Carcanet,  Bro-Varoch, 
Domnonde,  Le"on, — oh,  to  dwell  in  these 

Thine  ancient  kingdoms,  menhir-crowned,  that  mock 
The  age-long  thunder  of  Hesperian  seas! 

To  list  the  bigniou,  hear  the  saulniers  sing, 
To  glimpse  at  evening  from  the  falaise  high 

The  red-sailed  fishers,  homing  wing  and  wing, 
Coals  on  the  umbered  orange  of  the  sky! 

White  coiffes  and  laughter  on  the  moonlit  pier, 
The  market  wrangle  long  ere  prime  is  rung, 

Harsh  Breton  speech,  yet  sweeter  to  mine  ear 
Than  smoothest  syllables  of  an  alien  tongue! 

Foredone  with  toil  and  struggle,  I  would  rest, 

Yet  from  forgetfulness  debarred  am  I, 
Thou  kill'st  me  with  desire,  yet  from  thy  breast 

Thou  gav'st  the  stubborn  strength  that  will  not  die. 

Though  all  night  long  the  heart  with  heimweh  grieves, 
Though  in  the  dawning,  visioned  sleeplessly, 

The  wave-like  clamor  of  the  gusty  eaves 

Stabs  with  fierce  longing  for  thy  wind  and  sea. 

Is  the  day  bright,  my  heart  doth  whisper  low, 
"'Tis  misty  there!"  and  in  the  noonday  blaze 

When  shrills  the  locust,  "Surely  thou  must  know 
"In  our  own  land  there  are  no  parching  days!" 

If  the  clouds  gather,  "Ah!"  it  saith  to  me, 
"How  storms  in  Finisterre  the  autumn  rain!" 

If  snow,  "There  is  no  snow  in  Brittany!" 

Thus  every  lingering  hour  is  linked  with  pain. 

O  Celtic  Mother,  nothing  will  avail — • 

Still  shall  thy  blood-bonds  gall  a  willing  slave, 

And  grant  no  freedom,  till  the  straining  sail 
Rise  thy  cliff  ramparts  from  the  eastern  wave! 

M.  M. 


AUTHOR'S  NOTE. 

THE  principal  incident  in  the  following  story  is  based  upon 
actual  fact,  that  came  within  the  scope  of  the  writer's  personal 
observation. 


GRAY   MIST 


CHAPTER   I 

In  the  gray  mist  we  blindly  steer 
With  hearts  a-strain,  and  eyes  that  peer 
Naught  but  the  ghostly  wave  to  spy, 
Upheaving  through  the  smother  high, 
Or  breathless  deeps  descending  sheer. 

And  Silence  poiseth  darkly  near 
Broad-winged,  or  other  phantoms  drear 
With  shriek,  and  groan,  and  prayer  go  by, 
In  the  gray  mist. 

Long  toil,  and  niggard  gleams  of  cheer 
Glimpsed  from  a  far-off  sun  and  clear, 
Ere  the  cloud  knitteth  sea  and  sky! 
Lord,  may  thy  harbor-lights  be  nigh, 
When  looms  the  iron  Coast  of  Fear 
In  the  gray  mist! 

M.  M. 

"A/«  so  bepred  Bretoned — Bretoned,  tud  Kaled."  l 

THE  sea  was  utterly  still,  slowly  breathing  with  the 
slowly  rising  tide  which  idly  and  almost  imperceptibly 
lifted  the  long,  brown  ribbon-weeds  clothing  the  Melle- 
zouriou-Du  reefs.  Between  their  broad,  flat  streamers  the 
feathery  patterns  of  many  pale -green,  delicate  mauve, 

1  "We  are  Bretons  always,  Bretons  of  strong  and  faithful  race." 

i 


GRAY    MIST 

and  faintly  rose-tinted  fronds  floated  out,  and  lay  like 
the  rich  designs  of  some  antique  brocade  on  the  satiny 
surface,  softly  veiled  by  the  silvery  fleeciness  of  a  truly 
Breton  mist. 

Up  and  down  the  hazy  coast-line  other  groups  of  sen 
tinel  -  like  rocks  still  projected  their  dark,  wicked  crests, 
but  in  a  little  while  they  too  would  treacherously  disap 
pear  beneath  the  soft  wash  of  the  shore-bound  water. 
Meanwhile,  the  mist  seemed  bent  on  enveloping  the 
whole  wide  world  —  not  blowing  up  from  anywhere  in 
particular,  but  simply  evoked  somehow  by  every  silent 
aspiration  of  the  ocean,  intensifying  a  thousandfold  the 
unusual  calm  of  that  great,  dangerous  Bay,  the  entire 
floor  of  which  is  grimly  paved  at  unfathomable  depths 
with  the  bleaching  bones  of  drowned  men,  and  the  skele 
tons  of  shattered  boats. 

Far  out  beyond  the  dulled  shadow  of  the  rocks  a  dark 
object — larger  than  any  Northern  sea-bird — was  gently 
drifting.  The  exquisite  dream-light  within  the  heart  of 
the  fog,  poured  broadly  about  in  soft  diffusion  through 
floating  whorls  of  vapor,  defined  clearly  upon  the  slightly 
crinkled  surface  a  rumpled  plaque  of  nut-brown  belinge 
— a  buoyant  raft  of  wide-spread  petticoats  in  the  midst 
of  which  smiled  a  dimpled  baby  face,  merry,  rosy,  and 
unafraid.  Mist-drops  hung  to  the  dark  eyelashes  and  to 
the  fluffy  golden  curls  escaping  from  the  prim  bondage 
of  a  crimson  Breton  biggin  stoutly  tied  beneath  the 
fat  chin,  and  two  pudgy,  pink-palmed  hands  beat  the 
rippling  water  like  paddles. 

Somewhere,  very,  very  far  above  this  floating  mite, 
the  pale  sun  was  doubtless  shining  fitfully,  for  just  then 
a  curious  radiance,  penetrating  even  those  folds  upon 
folds  of  pearly  clouds,  pailletted  a  sea  of  burnished  steel 
with  millions  of  tiny  silver  disks — a  spectacle  that  filled 


GRAY    MIST 

the  big,  gray  eyes  watching  it  with  delight,  and  the  tiny 
palms  with  extreme  eagerness  to  seize  at  least  a  few  of 
those  twinkling  platelets! 

Born  and  bred  on  the  very  lip  of  the  great  Atlantic, 
this  little  fellow  had  no  fear  of  it  even  in  its  angriest 
moods,  so  why  should  he  now  be  alarmed  by  the  caress 
ing  touch  of  that  mellow  water,  so  maternally  upholding 
him  amid  a  delicious  shimmer  of  interwoven  lights  ?  At 
two  years  old  the  strangest  happenings  seem  quite 
natural,  and  when  awakening  from  a  long,  luxurious  nap 
curled  up  in  the  bottom  of  his  father's  kinau,  he  had 
accepted  his  position  as  a  captive  snatched  from  the 
sands  by  the  out-going  tide  quite  as  a  matter  of  course. 
How  could  he  know  that  the  square,  keelless  little  box, 
meant  solely  to  carry  the  sardine-baskets  from  the  an 
chored  sinagots  to  the  wharf  of  the  little  fishing-village 
now  many  miles  away,  was  at  best  a  tipsy  craft,  or  that 
his  careless  young  nurse  had  doomed  him  to  an  almost 
certain  death  when  she  had  let  herself  be  distracted 
by  some  foolery  or  other  from  her  duties  as  guardian 
of  his  slumbers  ?  No !  So  far  the  tiny  mariner  was  en 
tirely  satisfied. 

A  flicker  of  beating  wings  suddenly  flecking  the  fog 
with  the  whiteness  of  snow,  and  noisily  stooping  and 
settling  upon  the  face  of  the  waters  hard  by,  had  made 
him  crow  with  joy,  and  rising  unsteadily  to  his  yet  un 
certain  feet,  he  had  grasped  at  the  edge  of  the  little 
kinau,  bending  forward  with  all  his  might  to  clutch  at 
the  silky  pinions  of  those  tantalizing  gulls,  playing  hide- 
and-seek  with  him  amid  the  gauzy  coils  of  mist.  Why 
did  they  break  and  scatter  so  at  sight  of  him,  stupid 
things  ?  Vainly  reaching  out  for  them  he  had  stretched 
his  plump  little  body  across  the  narrow  rim,  and  in  an 
other  moment,  without  the  least  shock,  the  tricksy  shell 

3 


GRAY    MIST 

had  dipped  and  filled  like  a  teacup,  sending  its  occu 
pant  adrift  upon  his  wellnigh  unsoakable  homespun 
petticoats,  while  a  cloud  of  startled  birds,  springing  up 
ward,  vanished  with  ear-piercing  screeches  of  dismay 
into  the  depths  of  the  vapor-swathed  sky. 

"Oh-o-o-o-o-o-h!"  the  little  fellow  shouted  after  them 
in  indignant  protest  at  so  much  unfriendliness,  his  angry 
struggles  and  kickings  momentarily  submerging  more 
and  more  of  the  trusty  belinge,  thus  perilously  hastening 
his  own  final  exit  from  the  scene. 

Fortunately  for  him,  however,  at  that  very  minute  the 
blanket  of  fog  was  torn  apart  to  make  room  for  trans 
parencies  of  silvered  rose,  through  which  loomed  with 
the  indistinctness  of  a  vision,  a  cautiously-advancing 
fishing  -  boat.  This  sort  of  weather  —  le  grand  calme 
blanc — is  what  the  men  of  the  sardine-fleet  dread  most, 
because  in  the  white  wedlock  of  sea  and  sky  distance 
and  sound  are  alike  abolished,  so  that  the  most  watchful 
may  meet  the  fate  of  the  unwary  upon  the  murderous 
rocks  of  the  Bay.  Slowly  the  deep  -  laden  sinagot  ad 
vanced,  shearing  the  pale,  iridescent  sea — which  would 
have  seemed  so  absolutely  like  a  lake  had  it  not  been  for 
the  pure,  unmistakable  breath  of  the  ocean  pulsating  all 
around — and  suddenly  a  hoarse,  frightened  voice  cried 
out:  "Give  way!  For  the  Blessed  Virgin's  sake,  give 
way!" 

Two  strides  over  the  silver-and-opaline  shimmer  of  the 
full  sardine-baskets  brought  the  master  of  the  SUreden- 
Ab-Vor  to  the  bow,  while  his  second  jammed  down  the 
helm  with  an  oath  of  astonishing  magnitude! 

"What's that!  D'emZiRour!  (help) —  D'emZiRour 
Santez  Annaik — /"  the  barefooted,  freckle  -  faced  mousse 
shrieked,  crossing  himself  precipitately,  and  as  the  Patron 
swung  to  starboard  and  bent  far  out  over  the  side,  for- 

4 


GRAY    MIST 

getting  for  once  all  respect  and  discipline,  he  fairly  yelled: 
"Oh!  Don't  touch  it — Tec'h  (take  care) — let  Teuss  keep 
it — Gwa  (misery) — it's  a  Kollidik  Apouliek  !l  It'll  bring 
us  all  bad  luck!" 

Wholly  unmindful  of  this  sinister  warning  and  of  the 
half-muttered  protests  of  the  rest  of  his  crew,  Herv6 
Rouzik,  growling,  "You  half- weaned  calf,  who's  asking 
you  the  time  of  day?"  seized  his  opportunity,  made  a 
swift  downward  plunge,  a  quick  recover,  and  in  an 
other  moment  the  bronzed  and  muscular  equipage  were 
retreating  aft  from  the  utterly  confounding  spectacle 
of  a  lively  baby  laughing  and  crowing  to  them  from 
within  the  shelter  of  the  Patron's  arms,  and  not  one  whit 
more  alarmed  by  the  stern  faces  and  great  statures  of 
these  strapping  giants  of  the  sea,  than  he  had  been  by 
the  lonely  immensity  of  the  sea  itself. 

"Feel  of  it,  Herve?  Is  the  paotrik  (little  chap)  real? 
Look  out  en  hdno  ar  Speredz!"2  they  chorussed  in  tones 
ranging  from  superstitious  distrust  to  downright  alarm! 

"Real?"  Herve  cried,  turning  the  bright  little  face  up 
to  his  own.  "  Aoutrou  (Lord!)  I  should  think  so!  Come 
and  see  for  yourselves,  you  fools!" 

There  was  a  hesitating  move  for'ard,  and  a  few  mo 
ments  later  Mab-Ab-Koabr  (Son  of  the  Cloud),  as  they 
named  him  on  the  spot,  was  enthusiastically  accepted 
as  a  member  of  the  Stereden-Ab-Vor's  crew. 

Herve  Rouzik  was  a  typical  Breton,  possessed  of 
splendid  strength  both  moral  and  physical.  He  was 
loyal,  straightforward,  and  handsome,  with  deep-set  eyes 
that  fell  before  no  man,  and  his  heart  in  the  right  place — • 

1 A  "Kollidik  Apouliek"  in  Brittany  is  supposed  to  be  the  mis 
begotten  soul  of  a  still-born  baby  abandoned  by  God  to  Satan, 
who  tosses  it  for  sport  far  out  to  sea,  where  it  floats  in  the  track 
of  doomed  ships.  2  In  the  name  of  the  spirits. 

5 


GRAY    MIST 

that  is,  in  the  keeping  of  his  young  wife,  who  until  six 
months  since,  before  the  loss  of  her  first-born,  had  been 
the  loveliest  girl  in  Kermarioker.  This  misfortune  had 
shaken  even  Herve's  robust  faith;  to  his  bewildered 
understanding  it  was  as  though  the  whole  fabric  of  right 
and  justice  had  suddenly  plunged  and  staggered,  and 
since  that  never  -  to  -  be  -  forgotten  hour  he  had  neither 
quite  comprehended  himself  nor  his  surroundings.  A 
miserable  foreboding  of  final  disaster  never  left  him,  and 
day  and  night  he  trembled  for  his  Lanaik,  so  wan  and 
pale  now,  with  her  mind  egaree,  as  he  put  it  in  his 
simple  way,  and  scarcely  enough  strength  left  to  drag 
herself  about  the  house.  The  coming  of  another  child, 
they  told  him,  alone  could  save  her,  but  she  was  far  too 
frail  and  delicate  and  broken  for  such  hopes  to  be  en 
tertained,  and  he  felt  convinced  that  soon  she  would  glide 
from  madness  to  death,  leaving  him  alone  and  desolate. 
His  stern  eyes  filled  with  tears  whenever  he  thought 
of  the  vow  she  had  made  to  Saint  Yvon  de  Bretagne, 
Patron  de  ceux  qui  s'en  vont,  to  win  his  gentle  favor  so 
that  she  might  have  her  little  Pierrek  back  again!  With 
her  weak,  trembling  little  hands  she  had  fashioned  a  boat 
from  one  of  her  Sunday  sabots  of  fine-grained  beech- 
wood;  for  masts  she  had  stripped  three  furze  branches 
of  their  thorns;  for  yard-arms  her  finest  knitting-needles 
had  done  duty,  and  sails  of  mediaeval  magnificence  she 
had  cut  from  her  most  precious  possession,  her  wedding- 
apron  of  silver-and-azure  brocade!  But  the  rigging  — 
where  was  she  to  obtain  hemp  sufficiently  delicate  to 
make  that?  So  she  had  twisted  into  fairy-like  cordages 
some  of  her  beautiful  golden  hair,  and  affixing  the  silver 
cross  of  her  rosary  to  the  prow  of  the  quaintest  little 
vessel  ever  built,  she  had  carried  it  barefooted  all  the 
way  to  the  Chapelle  de  Saint  Yvon,  built  far  out  on  a 

6 


GRAY    MIST 

rugged  buttress  of  the  cliffs  above  the  ever-restless  sea, 
praying  aloud  as  she  went  for  the  return  of  the  child 
whom  she  always  refused  to  look  upon  as  dead! 

That  was  three  months  ago,  before  she  had  become  so 
helpless — and  now! 

Herve  glanced  almost  fearfully  at  the  sturdy,  curly- 
headed  little  fellow,  enthroned  upon  an  overturned  fish- 
basket  in  the  midst  of  the  grinning  crew,  wrapped  cosily 
in  his  own  vast  cirage,1  and  responding  gleefully  to  the 
boisterous  advances  of  the  now  thoroughly  -  reassured 
mousse  from  within  the  tent-like  folds  of  that  huge  gar 
ment. 

"Perhaps  it  is  Madame  la  Sainte  Vierge  who  has  sent 
you  a  substitute  for  your  little  Pierrek,  Patron,"  a  voice 
suddenly  muttered  at  his  elbow,  and  he  started  guiltily. 
"Life  and  Death!"  "Death  and  Life!"  he  seemed  to 
hear  the  water  murmur  as  it  parted  before  the  blunt 
prow  of  his  stout  chaloupe,  while  his  thoughts  spun  out 
before  his  musing  eyes  an  interminable  web  of  hopes 
and  fears  far  into  the  clammy  heart  of  the  mist,  beyond 
the  invisible  sea-rim,  beyond  his  sight  and  saner  judg 
ment! 

At  length  his  bronzed  face,  glistening  with  wet  and 
drawn  into  deep  lines  of  anxiety,  suddenly  lighted  up, 
all  worry  and  puzzlement  wiped  away  like  writing  from 
a  slate,  and  straightening  his  broad  shoulders  he  turned 
with  a  grunt  to  his  crew.  His  decision  was  taken! 

Lanaik,  meanwhile,  sat  on  her  door -step  beneath  a 
trailing  canopy  of  white  roses  that  clothed  the  little  four 
square  granite  house  with  fragrant  beauty,  her  great, 
blue  eyes  wandering  vacantly  about  the  narrow  strip  of 

^'Cirages"  are  pale-yellow,  water- proof  pilot-coats,  highly 
waxed  and  painted,  which  the  fishermen's  wives  manufacture 
very  cleverly  at  home  for  "those  at  sea." 

7 


GRAY    MIST 

garden  filled  with  honeysuckle,  hollyhocks,  and  stout 
bush-like  geraniums,  which,  sheltered  by  the  great  blocks 
of  rock  topping  the  sloping  shingle  beach,  grew  with  a 
full-fed  vigor.  Six  months  ago  she  had  been  the  happiest 
girl  in  Kermarioker,  but  to-day  her  arms  hung  listlessly 
at  her  sides,  and  her  thin,  haggard,  little  face  showed  those 
lines  of  anguish  that,  once  drawn,  are  never  quite  effaced 
again. 

"She  has  turned  'innocent'!" — which  in  Brittany  is 
the  equivalent  of  demented  —  was  the  verdict  of  Ker 
marioker,  and  truly  the  unrelieved  melancholy,  the 
stubborn  muteness  in  which  she  now  remained  eternally 
plunged,  deserved  no  other.  Little  Pierrek's  death 
seemed  to  have  dazed  her  absolutely,  and  her  youth  and 
beauty  were  fast  disappearing  under  the  erosion  of  this 
inconsolable  sorrow.  Perchance  the  village  matrons  were 
in  the  right  when  they  whispered  to  one  another  that  it 
was  a  pity  Herve  should  be  well  enough  off  to  indulge 
her  in  this  long-continued  apathy.  A  little  wholesome 
work  in  the  neighboring  salt-marshes  or  even  at  the  Usine 
le  Pennek  on  the  lower  harbor  would  have  been  far  more 
advisable;  but  then  Herve  Rouzik  had  from  the  first 
made  of  his  wife  a  sort  of  saint  to  be  humored  and  wor 
shipped  on  bended  knee  in  a  fashion  foreign  to  rough, 
granite-bound  Brittany,  where  if  husbands  do  treat  their 
wives  with  more  true  respect  and  old-fashioned  decorum 
than  anywhere  else  in  France,  they  nevertheless  expect 
them  to  bear  their  full  half  share  of  life's  labors  and  hard 
ships — to  be,  in  one  word,  helpmates,  in  the  full  sense  of 
that  proud  title. 

Absolutely  immovable,  Lanaik  sat  for  a  long  time 
watching  the  mist  twist  itself  in  pearly  coils  among  the 
stems  of  her  shrubs  and  plants,  once  so  tenderly  cherished, 
but  now  onlv  tended  at  odd  moments  by  Hervd.  It  was 


GRAY    MIST 

on  just  such  another  day  that  her  baby  had  been  taken 
from  her — she  remembered  this  with  terrible  accuracy — 
and  as  she  listened  to  the  dove-gray  water  chuckling 
derisively  to  itself  within  the  opaquely  shimmering 
depths  of  the  fog,  she  clinched  her  thin  hands  with  a 
sudden  grip,  for  in  her  poor  bruised  brain  she  made  it 
the  fault  of  la  grande  gueuse — as  we  coast -people  call 
the  ocean  when  it  has  displeased  us — that  her  little  son 
had  gone  away! 

Breton  women,  alas!  are  only  too  apt  to  see  this  heart 
less  Grande  Gueuse  rob  them  of  all  they  love,  and  since  her 
husband's  father,  his  uncles,  and  his  three  brothers  had  all 
been  snatched  away  thus,  why  not  her  tiny  darling, 
too?  With  all  her  dim  thoughts  rooted  in  this  crazy 
logic — crazy,  indeed,  since  the  child  had  died  of  one  of 
those  relentlessly  swift  infantile  maladies  that  disconcert 
science  and  ignorance  alike — she  stared  fiercely  seaward, 
as  though  bent  on  piercing  to  the  very  verge  of  that 
unseen  horizon  where  the  Inscrutable  Powers  are  en 
throned. 

An  overwhelming  sense  of  loneliness  and  desertion 
seemed  to  descend  upon  her  from  the  veiled  and  pallid 
sky.  Her  nerves  had  suffered  with  her  reason,  and  the 
slow  ground-swell  that  presently  began  to  beat  against 
the  base  of  the  rocks  near  by,  sounded  in  her  ears  like  the 
sobbing  of  a  haunting  spirit,  yet  she  was  not  weeping. 
Furious  resentment  stiffened  the  fibre  of  her  grief,  and 
her  only  demand  was  for  restitution.  "You  have  robbed 
me  of  my  son.  Give  him  back  to  me!"  It  is  the  mothers 
whom  God  pities,  they  say  in  Finisterre.  Would  the  sea, 
God's  greatest  work,  then  remain  forever  pitiless,  and  re 
fuse  to  give  her  back  the  little  one  she  mourned  ? 

One  sometimes  sees  in  the  stubborn,  almost  human 
profile  of  a  rock  outlined  against  a  wintry  sky,  such  an 

9 


GRAY    MIST 

expression  of  despairing  resentment  and  contemptuous, 
unyielding  hauteur  as  that  into  which  Lanaik's  straight, 
delicate  features  had  hardened,  and  yet,  had  she  but 
known  it,  the  Powers  enthroned  behind  those  mysteri 
ous  ,  pale  -  gray  veils  had  even  then  decreed  for  her  a 
strange  and  joyous  awakening  from  her  adamantine 
stupor! 

Across  the  fog-shrouded  Bay  the  fleet  of  double- winged 
sardine-boats  was  making  for  home.  Their  gorgeous  sails 
of  dusky  red,  deep  orange,  and  rich  umber  and  wall 
flower  tints,  advanced  shadowily  but  not  unheard,  for  the 
beautiful  minor  notes  of  the  sailors'  favorite  hymn — 

"Ar  stered  hep  niveY 
Hadet  gand  ar  C'hrouer, 

"Egiz  da  vleuniou  tan 
Dre  volzou  an  cabl  splan"  1 

were  wafted  inshore,  together  with  a  sharp  salt  pun 
gency  from  the  piled-up  fish-baskets  that  came  with  an 
effect  at  once  of  contrast  and  of  kinship  upon  the  steady 
land  perfume,  made  up  of  furze  and  genesta  blossoms, 
green  bracken,  crushed  pine-needles  and  turf -fire  smoke. 
The  sun  was  setting  now.  From  his  veiled  presence,  in 
dicated  by  a  curiously  -  tinted  glow  low  down  in  the  in- 
termelting  banks  of  fog,  smothered  rays  crept  delicately, 
enfolding  in  a  translucent  silkiness  of  light  the  vague 
looming  outline  of  the  many  -  hued  sails,  the  bowlder- 
studded  beach,  and  the  gray  houses  of  Kermarioker, 
clinging  to  a  break  of  the  frowning  cliffs  that  hid  their 
towering  summits  in  the  shrouded  sky.  Then,  as  the 
mellow  call  of  the  Angelus  began  to  sound  from  the  tiny 

1  From  the  Bombard  Kerne.  "The  numberless  stars  sown  by 
God,  like  flowers  of  fire  on  the  splendid  vault  of  heaven." 


GRAY    MIST 

church,  flanked  by  its  acolyte  the  many-stepped  granite 
calvary,  reality — or  what  there  had  seemed  to  be  of  it  in 
this  vaporous  scene  —  was  gone.  All  was  a  mirage  of 
mist  and  sea- voices  and  drowsy  bell-cadences,  "the  base 
less  fabric  of  a  vision"  that  would  surely  fade  and  "leave 
not  a  wrack  behind!" 

One  boat  had  separated  from  the  others,  and  instead 
of  entering  the  lower  harbor  was  feeling  its  way  towards 
the  rocky  foreshore  above  which  Lanaik's  cottage  was 
poised  like  a  sea-swallow's  nest.  The  equipage — all  fine 
types  of  men  in  their  blue  jerseys  and  red  belts  and 
berets — moving  quite  easily  in  spite  of  their  long  sabot- 
boots  and  thick  woollen  trousers,  were  beginning  to  haul 
down  the  sails,  while  the  mousse  handled  the  lapis-lazuli 
blue  nets,  which  in  a  few  swift  moments  more  would 
hang  from  the  denuded  masts  amid  fringes  of  golden- 
brown  cork  floaters,  transforming  the  chaloupe  into  a 
quaint,  sapphire  -  winged  object  as  fantastic  as  any  chi- 
meric  insect  ever  born  of  the  imagination. 

Noiselessly  parting  the  water  the  Stereden  -  Ab  -  Vor 
glided  on,  rounded  the  point,  and  finally  cast  anchor  by 
the  out-jutting  reef  some  small  distance  from  the  land- 
For  once  in  his  life  the  thrifty  Patron  had  abandoned  all 
thought  of  being  first  d  quay  with  his  sardines,  to  be  met 
by  the  usual  vociferous  inquiries  as  to  their  number,  and 
proposals  of  purchase  from  the  narrow  thresholds  of  the 
buyers'  guerites.  All  spirit  of  traffic  was  gone  from  him, 
and  leaving  his  crew  to  do  as  they  thought  fit  with  his 
fine  catch — they  were  happily  good  men  and  true — he 
was  soon  scaling  the  slippery  rocks  covered  with  great 
peruques  of  sea- weed,  carrying  with  man-like  awkward 
ness  and  sailor-like  security  a  burden  which  he  would  not 
have  exchanged  for  a  thousand  such  boat-loads  as  he  was 
leaving  behind  him. 


GRAY    MIST 

From  her  door -step  Lanaik  saw  his  vague  contours 
grow  gradually  more  defined,  but  thanks  to  the  refrac 
tion  of  the  fog  he  seemed  bizarrely  huge  and  uncouth 
against  the  lucent  background  of  sky  and  sea,  where  the 
shadowy  net-draped  silhouette  of  the  Stereden-Ab-Vor 
trembled  faintly  like  some  extravagant  moth  with  wet 
gossamer  wings. 

Suddenly  the  watching  woman  pressed  her  hand  to  her 
side,  as  if  pierced  by  acute  physical  pain.  Her  head  was 
stretched  forward,  and  her  widely  -  dilated  eyes  looked, 
and  looked,  and  looked,  while  the  azure  veins  beneath 
the  ivory-tinted  skin  of  her  temples  beat  like  tiny  ham 
mers.  She  knew  her  man  now  .  .  .  but  what  was  that 
that  he  carried  so  preciously  in  his  strong  arms  .  .  .  and 
why  this  unheard-of  apparition  of  the  St6reden-Ab-Vor 
so  far  from  her  anchorage  .  .  .  ? 

"  Hoarve!"  she  cried,  in  a  strangled  voice.  .  .  .  "  HoarveT' 
Then  with  a  strange,  gasping  shriek  she  shook  off  her 
sabots,  cleared  the  low  garden  wall  at  one  bound,  her 
weakness  and  illness  things  forgotten,  tore  herself  clear 
from  the  clinging  ivy,  and  honeysuckle  trailing  on  the 
top,  and  flew  to  meet  him,  threading  unerringly  between 
the  huddled  bowlders  and  drenching  her  slim,  stockinged 
feet  in  the  rhallow  pools  left  behind  by  the  last  tide. 

The  husband  striding  towards  her,  his  tanned  face 
stern  and  set,  his  heart  beating  with  keen  misgivings  at 
his  rashness,  quickened  his  pace  in  alarm,  and  when  she 
fell  sobbing  and  laughing  at  his  feet,  with  arms  wide  out 
stretched  towards  the  child,  he  lifted  her  up  almost  be 
fore  she  touched  the  ground,  and  carried  both  her  and 
the  now  thoroughly-terrified  baby  to  the  house,  bolting 
the  door  after  him  so  that  none  but  himself  should  chance 
to  see  her  thus. 

Hardly  had  the  Stereden-Ab-Vor  been  pulled  round  to 


GRAY    MIST 

the  harbor  by  willing  oars,  before  the  news  of  her  mar 
vellous  find  had  spread  all  over  Kermarioker.  "You 
must  manage  the  women,"  Herve  had  said  to  his  faithful 
crew,  "for  if  Lanaik  can  be  made  to  believe  that  this  is 
the  little  one  come  back  to  her  from  yonder" — pointing 
to  the  dim  ocean — "all  may  yet  be  well  with  her — other 
wise — !"  and  the  unfinished  sentence  had  impressed 
them  more  than  if  he  had  spoken  outright  the  empty 
darkness  of  that  future. 

The  women,  strange  to  say,  had  fully  agreed  with  the 
men,  and  had  expressed  nothing  but  love  and  sympathy 
and  eagerness  to  help  their  stricken  neighbor — but  then 
Brittany  is  still  par  excellence  the  land  of  miracles!  In 
deed,  even  the  sourest  matrons  sincerely  approved  of  the 
"pious  fraud"  devised  by  Herve  and  his  men,  smiling 
upon  the  latter  with  amiable  patronage  and  a  frankness 
that  disdained  irony.  "Don't  trouble  your  silly  heads!" 
they  royally  chorussed.  "Keep  your  own  mouths  shut 
and  we  will  see  to  the  rest.  Surely  we  know  what  we 
have  to  do  without  being  told!"  They  certainly  looked 
as  if  they  did.  It  seemed  self-evident  that  these  dig 
nified  and  slightly  -  contemptuous  personalities,  these 
snowy-coiffed  towers  of  strength,  needed  no  rash  advice 
from  mere  boys  standing  six  foot  or  more  in  their  bare 
feet! 

Next  morning,  when  the  Stereden-Ab-Vor  had  once 
more  disappeared  au  large,  as  the  sailors  say,  a  sheaf  of 
clean-washed  sun-rays  that  had  been  busily  chasing  away 
the  last  filmy  remnants  of  yesterday's  mist,  burst  into 
Lanaik's  little  home,  and  discovered  there  a  state  of 
affairs  for  many  and  many  a  day  foreign  to  that  roof  of 
blue-irised  thatch. 

On  the  carved  bench  within  the  deep  chimney-piece, 
beside  the  already  bubbling  marmite,  sat  a  wildly-happy 

13 


GRAY    MIST 

young  mother,  rocking  in  her  arms  the  baby-boy  whom 
la  grande  gueuse  had  yielded  up  to  her  at  last! 

Such  is  the  wonderful  elasticity  of  some  privileged 
natures,  that  Lanaik  had  somehow  managed  to  catch  up 
the  broken  threads  of  her  life  just  where  six  months  be 
fore  they  had  been  so  ruthlessly  wrenched  asunder,  and 
that  without  any  perceptible  shock  or  even  astonishment, 
since  the  Breton  character  has  at  all  times  a  peculiar 
leaning  towards  anything  that  savors  of  the  supernatural. 
Throughout  the  period  of  intellectual  cloudiness  following 
the  child's  death  she  had  prayed  and  longed  for  his  re 
turn  with  a  passionate  longing  that  dulled  every  other 
feeling,  and  though  it  might  take  weeks  for  her  full 
strength  of  mind  and  body  to  be  completely  restored  to 
her,  yet  the  transformation,  both  mental  and  physical, 
was  already  marvellous.  Her  blue  eyes  sparkled  once 
more  with  life,  her  thin  face  showed  a  faint  tinge  of  haw 
thorn  pink,  and  her  laugh  was  pure  mirth  and  pure 
music  as  she  danced  the  little  boy  on  her  lap.  They 
were  quite  alone,  those  two,  the  women  of  Kermarioker, 
with  the  innate  tact  of  their  race,  having  dispersed  singly 
and  in  delighted  groups  of  two  and  three  immediately 
after  offering  their  heartfelt  congratulations.  Certainly 
neither  complained  of  this  happy  solitude. 

The  slumberous  monotone  of  the  sea  filled  the  little 
house  as  it  fills  the  volutes  of  a  shell,  and  wrought  itself 
into  a  silence  that  was  golden  with  soft  mother -words 
and  gurgling  baby  prattle,  when  Monsieur  le  Cure,  just 
returned  from  a  visit  to  a  distant  part  of  his  large  and 
rugged  parish,  stopped  unobserved  at  the  half-door  and 
peered  cautiously  in.  His  keen  glance  swiftly  took  in 
the  whole  tableau;  the  hard-beaten  earth  floor,  the  great 
stone  fireplace  valanced  with  crimson  serge,  where 
sparkled  a  fire  of  turf  and  furze  branches,  the  antique 

14 


GRAY    MIST 

clothes-press,  bahut,  and  massive  table  of  rich-toned  curi- 
ously-carven  wood,  the  tall  dresser  gay  with  blue-and- 
green  Breton  crockery,  the  decorously  shuttered  lit-clos 
in  the  corner,  with  the  clumsy  little  oaken  cradle — once  so 
empty  but  luxurious  now  with  snowy  pillow  and  soft,  scar 
let  blanket — still  gently  rocking  on  the  banc-de-lit,1  and  last 
of  all — for  the  poor  Curd's  mind  was  just  now  at  odds  with 
itself — the  laughing  mother  and  child  in  the  inglenook. 

The  priest's  broad-shouldered  form  grimly  pre-empted 
the  rose-garlanded  aperture  beneath  the  narrow  lintel. 
His  finely  aquiline  Celtic  features  were  firm  set,  and  the 
hot  flush  of  anger  which  had  mounted  to  the  very  roots 
of  his  thick  silvered  hair,  at  the  discovery  of  what  he 
considered  the  cruel  trick  played  upon  Lanaik,  had  not 
yet  quite  faded.  Gradually,  however,  as  he  looked  and 
listened,  the  heavy  frown  relaxed,  the  bright,  steel-hued 
eyes  under  their  pent-house  brows  lost  their  harshness, 
and  something  remarkably  like  the  dawning  of  a  smile 
quivered  at  the  corners  of  his  severe  mouth. 

He  was  simple  as  a  child,  this  typical  Breton  priest — 
inclined,  perchance,  to  be  a  trifle  autocratic,  as  behooves 
the  shepherds  of  a  people  that  stands  —  and,  please 
Heaven,  will  everlastingly  stand — apart  from  the  rest  of 
the  world,  a  people  defiant,  reserved,  and  stubborn  to  an 
incredible  extent,  but  nevertheless  incapable  of  cowardly 
evasion,  meanness,  or  disloyalty.  He  lived  their  life,  bore 
their  hardships,  defied,  as  they  did,  the  sleepless  wrath  of 
the  sea,  and  suffered  much  of  their  poverty  also,  since 
with  the  obstinacy  native  to  his  granite  province,  he  had 
persistently  declined  well-merited  advancement  in  his  re 
luctance  to  abandon  them.  Of  course  he  was  not  in- 

1  The  broad  bench  or  step  in  front  of  the  lit-clos  or  cupboard- 
bed,  sometimes  part  of  the  bed  itself,  sometimes  a  separate  piece. 
The  cradle  always  stands  on  it  at  night. 

15 


GRAY    MIST 

frequently  guilty  of  the  sin  of  anger,  was  Monsieur  le 
Recteur,  but  luckily  these  outbursts  resembled  in  brevity 
as  well  as  violence  those  summer  tempests  which  strew 
the  coast  with  ruin  all  the  way  from  Paimbceuf  to  fur 
thermost  Finisterre,  and  then  after  all  this  quarter-deck 
ing  masterfulness  came  swift  self-reproach,  that  necessi 
tated  the  tactful  binding  up  of  all  the  wounds  he  had 
inflicted.  So  although  he  was  certainly  feared  by  his 
rough  parishioners,  as  one  is  always  feared  who  is  in 
clined  to  be  almost  as  severe  with  others  as  he  is  with 
himself,  his  tireless  unselfishness  and  that  true  tender 
ness  that  is  invariably  the  twin  -  brother  of  flawless 
bravery,  caused  him  to  be  adored  even  more.  But  most 
of  all  his  people  loved  him  for  the  charm  of  his  simplicity 
—that  simplicity  which,  childhood  once  past,  only  finds 
a  home  in  very  noble  souls.  In  short,  Monsieur  1'Abbe 
Kornog,  Cure  of  Kermarioker,  belonged  to  the  atmos 
phere  of  his  beloved  land,  and  was  no  less  a  character 
istic  and  racial  product  than  the  ancient  Breton  Saints 
whom  he  so  greatly  revered. 

At  this  moment  he  wore  a  sorely  perplexed  look — the 
index  of  a  state  of  mind  exceedingly  rare  with  him — as 
his  eyes  lingered  upon  Lanaik  and  the  counterfeit  Pierrek. 
Was  this  really  Lanaik  whom  he  saw  before  him — 
Lanaik  yesterday  suffering  with  all  the  passionate  depth 
of  a  rebellious  and  as  yet  untamed  nature,  and  drawing 
ever  nearer  to  complete  madness,  even  to  death  itself,  in 
her  hopeless  despair?  Here  was  no  brooding  dementia! 
It  was  she  who  was  the  real  changeling  as  she  sat  there 
utterly  unconscious  of  his  presence,  swinging  the  heavy 
baby  to  and  fro  upon  her  knee,  a  delicate  color  coming 
and  going  in  her  cheeks,  and  soft  bright  meshes  of  golden 
hair  peeping  from  the  nun-like  coiffe  pulled  a  little  awry 
by  childish  clutching  fingers. 

16 


GRAY    MIST 

Had  he,  her  spiritual  father,  her  truest  and  warmest 
friend,  the  right  to  interfere  now,  to  crumble  to  dust  with 
one  word  all  that  newly-found  and  so  greatly-needed  joy, 
to  consign  this  faithful,  happy  little  woman  to  the  dark 
ness  and  desolation  from  which  she  had  but  just  escaped  ? 
And  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  all  this  was  the  outcome  of  a 
lie,  a  barefaced,  abominable  lie! 

"No!  I  cannot  do  it!"  he  muttered,  very  low  and 
shamefacedly,  with  a  last  angry  flash  of  his  intent  eyes. 
"One's  conscience  is  a  curious  piece  of  property.  The 
wretched  thing  has  not  an  ounce  of  discrimination,  for 
this  time  I  could  almost  swear  that  it  is  in  the  wrong — 
although — "  For  a  moment  he  bowed  his  head  and 
closed  his  eyes;  then  the  muscular  hands — so  tender  to 
the  sick,  so  able  with  the  tiller  of  a  boat  or  in  the  man 
agement  of  a  sail — that  had  been  clinched  upon  the  edge 
of  the  half -door  like  those  of  one  who  wrestles,  loosened 
their  grip,  while  the  radiance  of  a  great  tenderness  sud 
denly  transfigured  his  strong  face. 

"C'est  bien!  I'll  take  the  sin  upon  my  own  shoulders 
and  do  proper  penance  for  it,"  he  muttered  again,  realiz 
ing  acutely  that  pity  had  conquered  and  that  Lanaik  and 
her  treasure  were  safe  from  him  forever. 


CHAPTER  II 

Lone  on  a  craggy  ness,  a  broken  tower 

Heaped  round  about  with  ruin,  seemed  to  be 
Skull  to  some  storm-bleached  skeleton  of  Power 

Dismembered  half,  and  scattered  scornfully; 

Hither  and  yon  the  huge  bones  mouldering  lay, 

And  two  black  holes  'neath  brows  of  granite  gray, 

Whence  flashed  of  yore  fierce  lights  to  far  away, 

Stared  like  dead  sockets  o'er  a  moaning  sea. 

M.  M. 

FIRMLY  planted  on  his  strong  brown  legs,  Pierrek,  with 
blazing  eyes  and  frowning  brows,  was  facing  Lanaik,1 
who,  quiet  and  gentle,  but  a  little  paler  than  usual,  was 
vainly  attempting  to  point  out  to  him  the  error  of  his 
young  ways.  Something,  however,  in  her  attitude,  in 
the  tone  of  her  tenderly  chiding  voice,  awoke  that  demon 
of  combativeness  which  lies  dormant  in  every  Breton, 
big  or  small,  and  suddenly  closing  his  dimpled  fists,  he 
said,  very  distinctly,  in  a  low,  angry  voice: 

"Na  beuket  ked  ac'hanoun!"     (Don't  bully  me!) 

Lanaik  fell  back  a  pace  in  utter  consternation,  unable 
almost  to  believe  her  ears,  for  children  in  queer  old 
Armorica  are  not  in  the  habit  of  speaking  disrespectfully 
to  their  parents,  having  been  spared  hitherto  any  ac 
quaintance  with  modern  improvements  and  fashions. 

"Pierrek!"  she  cried,  in  dismay,  recoiling  yet  a  whole 
step  more  from  him,  "Pierrek,  is  it  to  me  you  are  talking ?" 

1  Pronounced  Lah-nah-eek. 
18 


GRAY    MIST 

The  pebbly  lane  was  very  quiet,  behind  the  little 
group  formed  by  mother  and  child.  Lanaik's  garden, 
partially  shaded  by  a  gnarled  and  twisted  fig-tree  with 
a  tendency  to  lean  inland,  away  from  the  continual  sea- 
breezes  buffeting  its  broad,  leathery  leaves,  basked  in  the 
slanting  rays  of  the  declining  sun,  and  not  a  sound  save 
the  curiously  faint  murmur  of  the  rising  tide  broke  the 
ominous  silence. 

Pierrek  was  looking  down  now,  shamed  by  the  enormity 
of  his  crime,  and  as  his  beret  had  fallen  off,  the  late  after 
noon  light  sparked  freely  upon  a  wonderful  ripple  of  hair, 
cut  squarely  across  the  forehead  a  la  mode  du  Finisterre, 
not  golden — not  red — nor  auburn — nor  flaxen,  either,  but 
of  purest  living  copper,  a  tint  so  clear  and  bright  that 
it  would  have  glinted  and  gleamed  almost  as  much  with 
out  the  aid  of  this  added  glory. 

Lanaik,  watching  him  anxiously,  made  a  little  hesi 
tating  movement  towards  him,  instantly  arrested  by  her 
sense  of  duty.  She  must  not  relent  just  yet,  she  felt, 
and  still  her  whole  heart  yearned  passionately  for  the 
small  miscreant  in  his  humbled  attitude.  The  soft  hum 
of  bees  robbing  her  flowers  on  the  other  side  of  the  ivy- 
grown  garden-wall  suddenly  overpowered  the  low  dirge 
of  the  wavelets,  and  to  give  herself  countenance,  poor 
Lanaik  gazed  vaguely  at  the  flying  white  clouds  over 
head,  her  delicate  face  almost  succeeding  in  becoming 
severe,  the  laboriously  stern  set  of  her  lips  giving  her  ex 
pression  a  momentary  self-reliance  that  set  off  her  refined 
beauty  exceedingly. 

The  culprit  was  fully  aware  that  for  once  he  had  over 
stepped  what  even  that  lenient  little  mother  would  easily 
pardon,  but  instead  of  wheedling  his  way  back  into  favor, 
as  most  children  would  have  done,  he  stood  immovable 
before  her,  a  slight  rise  and  fall  of  color  on  his  rounded 

19 


GRAY    MIST 

cheeks  alone  showing  the  perturbation  of  his  feelings. 
Again  Lanaik  was  betrayed  into  making  that  little  hesi 
tating  motion  of  the  hands,  just  as  swiftly  repressed,  but 
did  not  offer  the  assistance  of  smile  or  word;  standing 
quite  still  a  yard  away  from  him  in  a  manner  peculiarly 
her  own,  and  suggestive  of  a  certain  extraordinarily  gen 
tle  determination  that  always  aroused  her  husband's 
merriment. 

It  was  a  humiliating  position  for  a  lad  of  Pierrek's 
haughty  spirit.  He  was  keenly  conscious  of  defeat,  and 
felt,  in  his  childish  way,  that  he,  Pierrek,  Mab-Ab-Koabr 
(Son  of  the  Cloud),  the  daring  future  mousse,1  was  just 
now  completely  nonplussed  by  a  pair  of  soft,  dark-blue 
eyes,  and  the  dignified  aloofness  of  two  demure  red  lips, 
usually  so  ready  to  kiss  and  forgive.  With  one  square- 
tipped  finger  he  pushed  up  his  lower  lip,  dragging  at  it 
with  his  white  teeth,  and  distorting  his  handsome  little 
face  into  a  grimace — very  unbecoming,  it  is  true,  but 
indicative  of  the  deepest  perturbation,  and  Lanaik  felt 
that  she  must  laugh. 

Stealthily,  beneath  his  black  lashes,  the  little  chap 
glanced  at  her,  frowned,  turned  his  eyes  away  again,  and 
decided  that  for  once  he  could  find  no  way  out  of  the 
difficult  situation  which  he  had  rashly  undertaken.  In 
grave  distress  he  scanned  the  upper  end  of  the  lane  that 
ran  in  a  casual  fashion  past  his  pretty  home,  and  then 
in  a  way  thoroughly  characteristic  of  Brittany,  turned  off 
unobtrusively  at  right  angles  from  the  garden-wall  to 
lead  nowhere  at  all,  but  a  solution  of  the  question  was 
not  to  be  found  there.  Then  it  was  that  Lanaik  turned 
upon  her  darling  with  something  very  like  real  anger  in 
her  corn-flower  blue  eyes. 

1  A  fisherman's  "boy,"  apprenticed  to  the  profession. 
20 


GRAY    MIST 

"How  long  are  you  going  to  stand  there  sulking,  you 
wicked  little  owl?"  she  asked.  "Do  you  think  I  have 
nothing  better  to  do  than  to  await  your  good  pleasure?" 

This  unusual  sternness  startled  Pierrek.  His  offence 
must  indeed  be  greater  than  he  had  thought!  He  wrig 
gled  one  bare  foot  uncomfortably  in  the  loose  sand  of  the 
lane.  What  was  all  this  about,  anyhow  .  .  .  just  a  tiny 
bit  of  disobedience — not  longer  than  his  own  little  finger 
— over  which  his  Mamm-Mammou1  made  all  this  fuss. 
But  then,  of  course,  that  was  because  she  hated  his  going 
near  the  boats  to  watch  his  opportunity  for  creeping  into 
one  of  them,  and  perhaps,  O  joy  of  joys!  being  carried 
to  the  fishing-grounds  as  a  stowaway.  Well,  and  what  of 
that  ?  Wasn't  he  to  be  a  full-fledged  mousse  in  little  more 
than  a  year,  whether  his  Mamm-Mammou  liked  it  or  not  ? 
The  faintest  suspicion  of  a  smile  hovered  for  a  moment 
in  his  downcast  eyes,  but  his  small  face  remained  quite 
expressionless,  the  curve  of  his  moist  red  lips  meant 
nothing,  and  it  was  with  an  amazement  which  fairly 
robbed  her  of  both  speech  and  action  that  Lanaik  saw 
him  bend  quickly  forward,  touch  ground  in  the  most  ap 
proved  sprinter  fashion  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  and, 
bounding  up  again  like  a  rubber  ball,  split  the  air  at  a 
rate  of  speed  which  precluded  all  possibility  of  successful 
pursuit. 

"The  little  rascal!"  she  cried,  unable  to  repress  a  laugh 
— the  trick  had  been  so  neat;  "but  it's  Hoarve  who 
wouldn't  joke  if  he  were  here,"  she  added,  reflectively, 
vainly  attempting  to  glean  from  the  scattered  remnants 
of  her  past  indignation  a  sufficiently  respectable  number 
of  grievances  to  place  before  that  worthy  mariner  by- 
and-by.  "Bah!  I'll  not  say  anything  about  it  at  all!" 

1  "Mother  of  Mothers";  pet  name  used  by  Breton  babies. 


21 


GRAY    MIST 

she  concluded,  turning  philosophically  upon  her  heel; 
and  re-entering  her  fragrant  little  garden-plot  she  at  once 
fell  to  weeding  and  tidying. 

Meanwhile,  Pierrek  was  racing  as  for  dear  life  towards 
a  very  favorite  hiding-place  of  his,  and  that  no  less  than 
the  tenantless  domain  of  the  dead  and  gone  Seigneurs  of 
Kermario. 

About  a  mile  farther  along  the  coast,  on  the  summit  of 
the  cliffs,  and  standing  back  but  a  short  space  from  their 
abysmal  plunge,  a  great  circuit  of  ponderous  gray  walls, 
broken  now  and  again  by  stout  towers  riven  in  more 
than  one  instance  by  the  storms  of  centuries,  still  crowns 
the  bold  headland  of  Kermario  with  the  beauty  and 
romance  of  ruin.  The  narrow  slopes  below  the  walls 
borrow  from  the  ancient  masonry  an  air  of  bleakness  and 
sterility,  though  they  are  densely  carpeted  with  that 
thick,  short  grass  of  the  Breton  cliff -edge  which  turns 
silver- white  during  the  winter  months,  like  the  beard  of 
an  aged  man,  to  reassume  in  early  spring  the  pale-golden 
tints  of  a  baby's  locks,  while  from  its  velvety  depths  rise 
almost  all  the  year  round  the  fuzzy,  faintly-pink  tassels 
of  millions  of  fragrant  sea-trefoils.  Within  the  sheltering 
walls,  however,  all  vestige  of  barrenness  disappears,  and 
few  spots  on  earth  can  boast  a  more  surprising  interlace 
ment  of  rare  shrubs,  costly  plants,  and  fine  old  trees.  It 
is  an  absolute  jungle,  created  by  more  than  a  hundred 
years  of  neglect  in  a  park  once  renowned  for  its  Versailles- 
like  magnificence. 

The  place  is  said  to  be  haunted,  and  there  are  to-day 
few  men  of  the  coast  who  would  consent  to  enter  the  vast 
enceinte  after  dark,  none  perhaps  who,  even  in  broad 
daylight,  would  so  much  as  approach  the  gigantic  pile 
of  debris  that  was  once  one  of  the  proudest  sea-fortresses 
of  Finisterre.  The  great  charred  blocks  of  stone  still 


GRAY    MIST 

show,  here  and  there,  half-effaced  armorial  bearings,  and 
crouching,  all  enamelled  with  clinging  ivy  in  the  centre  of 
a  dishevelled  lawn,  have  a  dumb  eloquence  which  none 
can  disregard.  No  wonder,  indeed,  that  the  peasants  and 
fisherfolk  of  the  neighborhood  should  tell  strange  tales 
about  that  place,  for  was  it  not  there  that  the  last  Marquis 
de  Kermario  and  his  five  stalwart  sons  were  besieged  for 
nine  days,  and  finally  burned  like  rats  in  a  trap?  It  is 
doubtless  quite  true  that  they  revisit  the  ashes  of  their 
funeral  pyre,  wandering  at  night,  blackened  by  smoke 
and  powder,  their  rich  clothes  hanging  dismally  about 
their  fleshless  bones  in  scorched  ribbons  and  waving 
tatters,  cursing  again  and  again  in  terrible  accents  those 
who  destroyed  the  cradle  of  their  race!  One  glance  at 
crumbling  Kermario  would  suffice  to  make  the  stoutest 
scoffer  credit  the  ghostly  legend! 

One  person  in  Kermarioker,  and  one  alone,  felt  no  fear 
when  these  aristocratic  ghosts  were  mentioned  in  awed 
whispers  at  the  Veillee.  This  was  Pierrek  Rouzik.  Long 
ago  he  had  discovered  a  narrow  fissure  at  the  base  of  one 
of  the  great  towers  of  the  enceinte,  through  which  he 
could  just  squeeze  his  supple  little  body,  and,  whenever 
he  could  manage  to  give  poor  Lanaik  the  slip,  he  scam 
pered  off,  hot-foot,  to  go  and  play  at  "being  king" — as 
he  termed  it — within  the  forbidden  enclosure.  He  knew 
every  inch  of  the  ground  there,  down  to  the  darkest  and 
most  overgrown  corners,  and  wandered  tirelessly  about 
in  search  of  the  precious  Geot-a-aour  (Golden  Herb) ,  which 
surely  must  flourish  on  such  enchanted  ground! 

No  true  Breton  can  ever  quite  abandon  the  idea  that 
this  remarkable  plant  really  exists,  or  that  if  one  sees  it 
shining  from  afar,  like  a  handful  of  louis  d'or  in  the  grass, 
and  succeeds  in  gathering  it  with  the  right  hand  crossed 
under  the  left  elbow,  saying  quickly: 

23 


GRAY    MIST 

"Mar  venez  Satann,  ra'zy  pell,  en  han  Sant  Hoarve!" 
(If  you  are  of  Satan,  vanish  in  St.  Herve's  name!) — 
a  sudden  and  startling  comprehension  of  the  languages 
of  the  birds  of  the  air,  the  beasts  of  the  earth,  and  the 
fishes  of  the  sea,  will  be  one's  exceeding  reward!  More 
over,  a  sachet  of  fine  linen  filled  with  Geot-a-aour  and 
worn  around  the  neck  insures  health,  wealth,  and  happi 
ness  for  years  to  come!  Naturally,  all  these  benefits 
seemed  well  worth  a  little  trouble  to  the  adventurous 
Pierrek,  who  had  made  up  his  mind  to  find  the  Golden 
Herb  come  what  might,  little  knowing  that  he  would 
eventually  risk  life  itself  in  this  stubborn  quest! 

At  last  he  slackened  his  pace,  knowing  himself  to  be 
safe  from  pursuit,  and,  quite  devoid  of  any  remorse,  began 
to  drink  his  fill  of  the  fresh  salt  wind  sweeping  without 
hinderance  from  half  across  the  world.  The  afternoon 
was  ideally  pure  and  golden,  although  the  dangerous 
equinoctial  storms  were  not  far  off,  and  the  sea,  lazily 
furling  and  unfurling  her  berylline  undulations  hundreds 
of  feet  below  him,  seemed  a  vast,  crinkled  plain  slanting 
gently  to  a  sky-line  of  immeasurable  distance.  Lesser 
headlands  thrust  and  elbowed  their  way  out  from  shore 
as  upon  a  relief  map,  and  midway  in  the  wide  prospect, 
like  a  drove  of  prehistoric  monsters  basking  upon  the 
waters,  seven  islands,  furred  over  with  the  short,  tawny 
grass  that  completes  their  animal  aspect,  stretched  out 
reptilian  tails,  or  erected  manes  and  crests  of  quaintly- 
tinted  granite  dripping  with  dazzling  sea-slaver.  The 
slender  shaft  of  a  light-house,  spiring  upward  from  its 
lonely  fang  of  rock,  seemed  to  dominate  this  formidable 
company  like  the  staff  of  a  shepherd. 

All  this  Pierrek  took  in  with  an  intelligent  comprehen 
sion  far  beyond  his  years,  and  an  almost  solemn  earnest 
ness,  which,  however,  gave  place  to  instant  amusement  as 

24 


GRAY    MIST 

he  suddenly  came  in  sight  of  a  troop  of  gulls  drying  their 
unfolded  wings  on  the  sun-bathed  grass.  They  looked 
extraordinarily  peaceful  and  patriarchal,  these  clannish, 
silver-plumaged  birds,  and  at  his  approach  they  showed 
no  fear,  merely  rising  from  the  ground  gravely  and  deco 
rously  in  the  courteous  fashion  of  people  making  way  for 
a  superior,  and  settling  down  a  few  yards  farther  on  in 
the  same  order.  Evidently  the  boy  was  no  stranger  to 
them,  and  since  gulls  in  Brittany  are  said  to  live  to  a 
very  respectable  age,  this  might  very  well  be  the  same 
feathered  squadron  of  five  years  ago,  that  had  bunched 
and  scattered  in  the  gray  mist  at  sight  of  a  rosy-cheeked 
baby  bobbing  up  and  down  amid  the  ripples  of  their 
watery  domain.  With  a  funny  little  gesture  of  familiar 
greeting,  the  boy  marched  on,  leaving  them  to  the  enjoy 
ment  of  their  sun-bath;  climbed  over  a  tall  hedge  of 
Christ's-thorn,  and  breaking  once  more  into  a  run,  es- 
caladed  the  last  abrupt  rosemary-clad  slope.  Throwing 
himself  flat  on  his  stomach,  he  crawled  beneath  a  cur 
tain  of  blackberry  bushes — not  without  some  damage  to 
both  his  clothes  and  his  hands — and  finally  wriggled 
through  the  rent  in  the  wall-tower  into  a  glorious  oasis 
of  rioting  verdure. 

In  that  second  the  ocean  was  gone,  its  strong,  salty 
breath,  the  very  rumor  of  it  had  vanished!  The  far- 
stretching  vision  of  savage  rocks,  the  arid  lande,  the 
whispering  murmur  of  the  still  rising  tide,  were  exchanged 
on  this  side  of  the  crenellated  cincture  for  a  wilderness 
of  rank  herbage;  a  bewildering  labyrinth  of  arborescent 
fuchsias,  myrtles,  pomegranates,  and  laurels,  tangled  in 
the  vast  meshes  of  an  all-embracing  net  of  ground-ivy. 
Dahlias  and  chrysanthemums,  heliotropes  and  hydrangeas 
bloomed  everywhere,  a  little  palely,  perhaps,  from  their 
close  sequestration  beneath  dense  overgrowths  —  but 

25 


GRAY    MIST 

thanks  to  their  immunity  from  either  gardeners'  shears 
or  pilfering  hands,  in  a  profusion  that  did  honor  to  the 
soil  from  which  they  sprang,  and  to  the  world-old  mason 
ry  that  baffled  alike  the  frequent  cutting  winds  and  the 
bitter  showers  of  spindrift. 

The  old  orchard,  occupying  a  south  corner,  was  just 
then  in  all  its  glory.  Pears  and  apples,  peaches,  plums, 
and  apricots,  bore  down  the  branches  of  the  ancient  trees, 
and  lay  in  many-colored  windrows  of  sweetness  on  the 
paquerette  studded  turf.  Farther  on  a  mouldering  pergola 
crumbled  beneath  a  weight  of  grapes  worthy  of  Canaan; 
pale-golden  and  ruddy-purple  bunches  gleaming  gemlike 
between  the  tawny-spotted  luxuriance  of  their  classic 
foliage.  Again,  a  row  of  gigantic  fig-trees  spread  the  sun- 
flecked  shadow  of  their  broad  leaves  above  a  miraculous 
harvest  of  dead-ripe  bronze  and  green  fruit,  and  as 
Pierrek  reached  that  spot,  he  fairly  smacked  his  lips! 
This  would  be  a  gouter  after  his  own  heart,  devoid  of  the 
brininess  inherent  in  all  Breton  menus,  and  he  laughed 
between  mouthfuls  as  he  thought  of  the  stupidity  that 
prevented  the  whole  village  from  sharing  in  this  feast  of 
feasts!  Running  hither  and  thither  he  sampled  the 
entire  orchard,  and  it  was  only  when  wholly  convinced 
that  he  could  hold  no  more  that  he  turned  his  attention 
to  one  of  his  favorite  playgrounds — a  double  line  of  dis 
mantled  hot-houses  now  wellnigh  innocent  of  glass,  but 
still  tenanted  by  the  beauty  and  fragrance  of  some  superb 
exotics,  perfectly  acclimatized  in  this  ideal  nook  of  a 
frostless  coast. 

A  beautiful,  broad-leaved  vine,  brought  at  great  cost 
from  Madagascar  in  the  long  ago,  formed  his  own  especial 
bower.  It  was  so  vigorous  that  it  had  matted  itself 
across  the  naked  ribs  of  what  had  been  the  central  dome, 
and,  beneath  its  interwoven  tendrils,  hung  with  bell- 

26 


GRAY    MIST 

shaped  blossoms  of  waxy  pink,  a  whole  family  of  owls 
had  established  a  squatter  sovereignty!  All  day  long 
these  solemn  birds  sat  in  the  perfumed  duskiness,  wing 
to  wing  upon  a  transverse  bar,  their  topaz  eyes  partly 
closed,  their  fluffy  little  horns  relaxed,  greeting  Pierrek 
when  he  visited  them  with  a  soft  shrug  of  feathers  and  a 
sleepy  squint  that  said  as  plainly  as  speech  could  have 
done:  "We  don't  mind  you!  Come  and  make  yourself 
comfortable  in  the  shade  with  us!"  So  at  least  the  child 
understood  their  attitude,  for  he  had  never  failed  to 
accept  the  mute  invitation,  and  to-day,  being  inclined 
after  his  sumptuous  meal  to  keep  unusually  quiet,  he 
stretched  himself  luxuriously  on  a  thick  mat  of  salaginella 
moss,  close  beneath  his  hosts'  lofty  perch,  in  a  mood 
almost  as  drowsy  as  their  own. 

The  afternoon  had  been  hot,  and  the  younger,  tenderer 
tendrils  of  the  vine  drooped  in  a  sunlight  quite  extraor 
dinarily  fierce  for  Brittany.  "It  should  be  watered," 
thought  Pierrek.  "There's  been  no  rain  for  so  long,  the 
poor  plant  is  dying  of  thirst!" 

Water!  It  was  all  very  well  to  talk,  but  where  was  he 
to  find  some?  The  conduits  of  the  carven  fountains  in 
the  neighboring  pleasance  had  long  since  been  choked 
with  drifting  sand  and  mouldering  leaves,  and  the  merrily- 
splashing  brook  at  the  bottom  of  the  park,  as  well  as  the 
placid  Nadoz-Aer1  lake,  girt  with  weeping-willows,  was  a 
great  way  off!  Sorrowfully  the  little  lad,  who  in  his 
quaint  fashion  adored  flowers  and  animals  of  every  sort, 
gazed  through  his  half-closed  lids  at  the  parching  vine. 
Then  suddenly  he  jumped  up  with  a  pleased  exclamation 
which  caused  his  friends  the  owls  to  bristle  their  sleek 
feathers  angrily.  There,  within  a  few  feet  of  his  head, 

1  Air-needle — name  given  to  the  dragon-fly  in  Brittany. 
3  27 


GRAY    MIST 

the  rusty  iron  orifice  of  a  water-pipe,  set  in  the  crumbling 
masonry,  was  staring  him  in  the  face — and  yes,  its  jagged 
lip  was  certainly  damp.  Why  could  he  not  clear  the  dirt 
from  it  and  flood  the  thirsty  ground  ?  In  a  trice  he  was 
at  work,  prodding  and  poking  with  a  bit  of  wood,  with 
out,  however,  creating  much  impression  upon  the  ac 
cumulation  impacted  firmly  at  a  bend  of  the  pipe,  a  foot 
or  so  within.  At  length,  impatiently  throwing  down  the 
stick,  he  thrust  in  his  hand  and  arm  as  far  as  they  would 
go,  grappling  at  the  obstruction  with  nervous  fingers. 
Valiantly  indeed  did  he  labor,  and  at  last  something  did 
seem  to  give  way.  "Ouf!  It's  done!"  the  successful 
worker  cried,  beginning  to  withdraw  his  arm,  wildly 
curious  to  see  if  the  imprisoned  water  would  spout  forth. 
But  his  joy  was  of  short  duration,  for  his  elbow,  which  had 
slipped  in  so  easily,  seemed  to  have  become  a  fixture, 
and,  strive  as  he  might,  he  could  not  free  himself. 

' '  Goa !  *  The  witches  have  got  me  at  last ! "  he  ex 
claimed,  straining  at  his  already  extremely  painful  arm 
and  gritting  his  teeth  furiously.  Anger  was  at  present 
his  only  sensation,  and  such  a  red  wrath  of  anger  that  it 
made  him  almost  totally  oblivious  of  either  present  hurt 
or  future  possibilities,  his  eyes  snapping  sparks  of  gray 
fire  as  he  wrenched  and  wrenched  again. 

All  around  him  the  great  domain  slept  in  the  rays  of 
the  mellow  September  sun.  Bees  droned  above  every 
flower,  and  birds  twittered  and  sang  joyfully  on  the 
coping  of  the  lofty  walls,  where  the  insidiously-creeping 
runners  of  the  ivy,  that  caressed  the  stone-work  to  its 
ruin,  hid  their  abandoned  nests  of  the  spring-time. 

"I  wish  I  had  a  knife  to  cut  off  my  arm!"  he  panted, 
again  and  again,  white  to  the  lips  now  with  rage  and 

1  A  Breton  malediction. 
28 


GRAY    MIST 

anguish,  his  shaking  voice  sounding  oddly  small  and 
helpless  in  the  cruel  stillness.  Cold  sweat  was  pouring 
over  his  face  by  this  time,  for,  in  spite  of  his  courage  and 
pluck,  he  was  slowly  beginning  to  realize  the  horrors  of  his 
predicament.  Would  he  have  to  perish  of  hunger  and 
thirst  in  this  haunted  solitude,  unseen,  unheard,  where  none 
would  ever  dream  of  searching  for  him.  He  gritted  his 
strong  little  teeth,  and,  suddenly  stretching  out  his  free 
arm,  dashed  a  tightly  -  clinched  fist  through  one  of  the 
few  curving  panes  of  glass  still  adhering  to  the  broken 
frame-work  close  by,  bending  laboriously  down  as  the 
pieces  tinkled  to  the  ground,  and  picking  up  the  largest. 
"Might  not  this  do  for  a  knife  ?"  was  the  savage  thought 
that  crossed  his  brain. 


Monsieur  le  Recteur,  returning  home  along  the  cliff- 
road,  from  the  sick-bed  of  a  parishioner,  paused  beneath 
the  frowning  battlements  of  Kermario  to  gaze  delightedly 
at  the  sunset.  "Dreams  are  the  paths  that  lead  to  sin!" 
was  one  of  his  favorite  adages,  and  he  carefully  refrained 
as  a  rule  from  indulging  himself  in  them.  Now  and  again, 
however,  his  Celtic  imagination  overruled  this  ascetic 
philosophy,  and  to-day,  as  he  faced  the  extraordinary 
magnificence  of  that  foam  -fretted  bay,  with  its  long 
undulations  of  blue-and-green  mackerel  tints,  its  escarped 
and  caverned  shores  crowned  with  a  fringe  of  sombre 
pines  against  the  radiance  of  the  western  sky,  he  slowly 
took  off  his  broad-leaved  hat  and  fell  into  the  very  state 
of  mind  he  most  condemned.  He  loved  his  Brittany, 
did  the  Abbe"  Kornog,  ardently,  jealously,  in  the  past 
and  present,  with  a  passion  that  desired  no  change,  no 
so-called  "progress,"  since  progress  in  these  days  means 
the  upheaval  of  old  faiths  and  virtues,  the  destruction  of 

29 


GRAY    MIST 

passionately-reverenced  sanctuaries,  the  negation  of  all 
that  is  holy  and  miraculous  and  deeply  Breton. 

The  aromatic  fragance  of  the  sea  rilled  the  air,  borne 
towards  him  on  a  soft  breeze  that  rustled  through  the 
dainty  glisten  of  pearl -gray  dwarf-thistles,  brittle  as 
glass,  and  the  juicy,  emerald-green  samphire  stems,  tangled 
and  interwoven  wherever  the  grim  teeth  of  the  cliff  thrust 
upward  through  its  thin  lip  of  sandy  mould.  Luxuriously 
did  the  excellent  Abbe  breathe  in  this  elixir  of  life,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  distant  curve  of  the  ocean  where  broad 
bands  of  rich  orange  quivered  against  a  Byzantine  glory 
of  pale  gold,  shot  with  rippling  shades  of  turquoise. 
Above,  the  whole  heaven  was  of  a  tender,  infinitely  deli 
cate  mauve,  swept  with  rose-tinted  flames.  Truly  an 
orgy  of  dazzling  color  in  this  land  of  half -tints,  hazy 
skies,  and  silvery  vapors. 

Very  slowly  the  intense  brightness  of  sea  and  sky 
retreated  before  the  stealthy  advance  of  a  soft-footed 
violet  gloaming.  The  low  chant  of  the  waves  took  on 
a  deeper,  more  sonorous  note,  as  the  fulness  of  the  tide, 
once  more  victorious,  swept  over  her  reconquered  domain, 
lifting  the  drooping  algae  on  her  heaving  shoulders,  and 
spreading  abroad  the  supple  ribbons  of  the  weeds  that 
for  six  hours  had  lain  supine  against  the  granite  of  the 
reefs.  Then  one  solitary  star,  pale  still  from  the  effort 
of  awakening,  rose  above  the  tragic  profile  of  Cape  Toen- 
Vor,  quivered  listlessly  for  a  while,  and,  seeing  that  the 
night  would  be  good  to  look  upon,  began  to  shed  her 
steady  magnificence  athwart  the  fading  splendors  of  the 
vanished  sun. 

The  good  Cure"  suddenly  awoke  to  the  gathering  twi 
light.  "Ni  ho  salud,  Stereden-Vor"  *  he  hurriedly  mur- 

1  "I  greet  thee,  Star  of  the  Sea!"  Breton  translation  of  the 
hymn  "Ave  Maria  Stella.'1 

30 


GRAY    MIST 

mured,  crossing  himself  and  bowing  his  head  as  in  greet 
ing,  a  little  ashamed  of  having  been  caught  napping,  even 
by  this  silent  and  friendly  witness.  He  turned  to  go,  but 
beyond  the  massive  ramparts  at  his  back  the  nightingales 
began  to  sing,  first  one,  then  another,  and,  quite  unable 
to  tear  himself  away,  he  lingered  a  few  minutes  longer, 
though  the  distant  clang  of  the  Angelus  was  already  call 
ing  him  reproachfully  to  account.  And  then,  over 
powering  completely  the  delicious  concert  of  the  birds, 
came  an  inarticulate  cry,  ceasing,  and  recommencing 
more  violently,  to  die  finally  away  in  lugubrious  echoes 
along  the  ivy-bo wered  sweep  of  wall.  With  a  gasp  of 
astonishment,  the  Cure  turned  to  stare  in  the  direction 
of  this  sinister  sound.  Once  again  in  his  long  experience 
he  had  stumbled  unexpectedly  upon  the  human  element 
— ever  lurking  amid  poetic  shadows  to  drag  us  roughly 
down  to  earth.  Though  amazed,  for  he  well  knew  that 
no  member  of  his  flock  would  hazard  a  step  beyond  the 
rusty  gates  of  Kermario,  the  Cure  wasted  no  time  in 
speculation,  but  set  off  immediately  at  a  run  towards  the 
nearest  entrance,  a  small  postern-door  partly  overhung 
with  trailing  greenery,  the  key  of  which  never  left  him, 
for,  like  Pierrek,  he  loved  the  great  silent  domain,  and 
feared  not  at  all  the  wandering  manes  of  the  heroic  nobles 
murdered  there  so  long  ago. 

Again  and  again  as  he  ran  he  heard  the  extraordinary 
cry,  every  repetition  of  which  lent  wings  to  his  haste,  but 
when,  after  letting  himself  into  the  dusky  park,  he  paused 
for  breath  an  instant,  the  faint  rustle  of  leaves  overhead, 
and  the  gentle  gurgle  of  the  brook  speeding  from  the  lake, 
alone  greeted  him.  Silent  and  motionless  he  stood  there, 
a  gaunt  black  shadow,  scarcely  staining  the  now  fast- 
gathering  gloom — so  silent  and  so  still,  indeed,  that  it 
might  have  been  the  shade  of  the  dead  Marquis  himself. 

31 


GRAY    MIST 

The  semidarkness  beneath  the  trees  contrasting  sharply 
with  the  warm  afterglow  of  the  sunset  outside  the  walls, 
warned  him  to  begin  his  search  at  once;  so,  slowly,  and 
with  instinctively  outstretched  hands,  he  started  forward 
again.  Floating  fils  de  la  Vierge  broke  across  his  high- 
bridged,  domineering  nose,  and  he  impatiently  brushed 
away  the  clinging  fibres,  stopping  every  few  steps  to  lis 
ten  for  the  guiding  cry. 

At  last  he  heard  it  once  more,  rising  and  falling  quite 
close  this  time,  a  harsh,  grating  yell,  more  of  rage  than 
of  pain,  which  literally  tore  his  ears  with  its  piercing  note 
of  savage  and  exasperated  defiance.  "It's  Pierrek!" 
cried  the  priest,  as  with  renewed  agility  he  bounded  up 
the  moss-grown  steps  leading  from  terrace  to  terrace. 
"No  one  on  earth  would  dare  to  come  here — or  be  ca 
pable  of  making  such  a  noise!"  Making  straight  for 
the  sound,  he  crashed  through  a  thick,  horn-beam  hedge 
reinforced  by  clinging  ropes  of  honeysuckle  as  if  it  had 
been  mere  paper — his  powerful  shoulders  leaving  behind 
them  a  hole  that  might  have  let  in  a  small  cart — and 
found  himself  on  the  western  esplanade  in  what  remained 
of  sunset  brightness.  Every  object  in  sight  was  veiled 
with  that  exquisitely  delicate  evening  sea-mist,  which  at 
moonrise  brightens  into  sheer  diamond-dust,  and  to  the 
right,  above  the  mounded  crests  of  shrubbery,  rose  the 
skeleton  structure  of  the  hot-houses,  transformed  into 
an  aerial  fairy  fabric,  wherein  all  the  lingering  remnants 
of  daylight  seemed  imprisoned.  In  four  strides  the  Abbe 
Kornog  reached  the  verdure-garlanded  entrance,  a  yard 
or  two  within  which  the  half-kneeling,  half-crouching 
form  of  Pierrek  confronted  him.  The  rosy  brown  of 
the  child's  face  had  faded  to  an  ashy  gray,  the  puckered 
forehead  was  clammy  with  a  sweat  that  was  not  of  exer 
tion,  but  the  bold  eyes  were  quite  tearless,  and  glittered 

32 


GRAY    MIST 

merely  with  anger — such  an  anger  as  one  may  only  see 
sparkling  through  those  of  a  trapped  wild  animal. 

The  priest  gave  a  short  gasp  as  he  caught  sight  of  the 
blood-stained  arm  held  fast  in  the  masonry,  but  repress 
ing  at  once  all  further  sign  of  emotion,  he  said,  quietly,  to 
the  now  almost  uncannily  -  silent  boy,  still  obstinately 
wrenching  at  his  imprisoned  limb: 

"Don't  move,  Pierrek,  you  are  only  making  matters 
worse  by  struggling." 

Much  to  M.  Kornog's  surprise  and  inward  gratification, 
he  was  instantly  obeyed,  though  not  a  word  of  explana 
tion  or  complaint  passed  the  twisted,  whitened  lips.  This 
whiteness,  and  a  continuous  twitching  of  the  dark  eye 
brows,  which  in  no  way  affected  the  lids,  expressed  a 
quality  of  courage  which  brought  a  lump  in  the  Cure's 
throat,  and  made  it  a  hard  task  for  him  to  press  unhesi 
tating  fingers  upon  the  bruised  and  swollen  flesh. 

This  short  examination  sufficed  to  convince  him  that 
the  situation  was  indeed  a  grave  one.  It  seemed  at  first 
sight  as  if  nothing  short  of  demolishing  the  wall  and  cut 
ting  through  the  rusty  pipe  could  free  the  little  victim, 
thanks  to  the  complete  wedging  of  the  elbow-joint,  and 
at  the  thought  his  strong  face  turned  as  livid  as  Pierrek's 
own.  Then  came  the  "second  thought"  of  a  resourceful 
and  experienced  man  well  used  to  difficult  moments,  sug 
gesting  a  narrow  chance,  and  after  a  moment's  reflection 
he  said,  in  the  same  steady,  admirably-controlled  voice: 

"Oil  is  the  only  thing  that  will  make  your  arm  slip 
out,  Pierrek,  and  I  must  leave  you  for  a  short  while  to 
go  and  get  some.  .  .  .  Will  you  .  .  .  will  you  mind  that?" 
he  concluded,  a  trifle  more  lamely,  for  in  his  innermost 
heart  there  was  rising  a  dread  of  seeing  this  unnatural 
self-repression  break  down  just  when  there  was  so  little 
time  to  lose. 

33 


GRAY    MIST 

Pierrek  nodded  acquiescence — clearly  he  did  not  trust 
himself  to  speak — and  with  a  pathetically  cheery  "I'll 
be  back  in  a  few  minutes,  never  fear,"  the  Cure  dashed 
along  the  grass-grown  esplanade  at  a  pace  that  would 
have  struck  his  parishioners  dumb  with  amazement. 

"Le  brave  petit  gars!"  he  was  thinking,  while  running 
as  he  had  never  run  before;  "that's  the  stuff  from  which 
all  our  Breton  heroes  have  been  made  .  .  .  but  help  him 
.  .  .  and  me  also,  Sainte  Vierge  Mere  des  Anges  ...  for 
we  are  both  in  sore  straits!" 

He  turned  sharply  to  the  left  on  leaving  the  walls,  and 
glanced  exasperatedly  at  the  thatched  roofs  of  Kerma- 
rioker  that  seemed  so  far  away,  stupidly  nestling  at  the 
foot  of  bastion  after  bastion  of  jagged  cliff.  For  the 
fraction  of  a  second  he  stood  irresolute  on  the  airy  path 
hanging  like  a  cornice  from  the  very  brink  of  the  Fa- 
laise,  and  this  time  it  was  not  precisely  a  prayer  that  he 
breathed!  Just  then,  however,  the  moon  rose  triumphant 
ly  above  the  dark  trees  of  Kermario,  illuminating  with  a 
sudden  shower  of  pale  gold  the  gray  tower  of  his  church 
where  it  stood  on  a  wide,  projecting  ledge,  surrounded  by 
its  tiny  cemetery,  not  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  Without 
further  hesitation  the  Cur6  swung  off  towards  it,  scram 
bling  down  the  stony  incline  at  a  breakneck  speed,  which 
deprived  him  of  his  broad-leaved  hat,  twirled  his  robot 
most  rakishly  to  one  side,  and  cut  his  well-worn  silver- 
buckled  shoes  in  more  than  one  place,  but  landed  him  at 
last,  breathing  an  exclamation  of  relief,  before  the  ever 
wide-open  doors  of  the  little  sanctuary.  The  decorous 
calm  of  the  silent  chancel  took  him  for  once  utterly  by 
surprise,  and  it  was  quite  mechanically  that  he  bent  the 
knee  and  crossed  himself  as  he  passed  the  High  Altar, 
where  the  ruby  light  of  a  hanging-lamp  shone  dully  against 
the  gorgeous  background  made  by  a  rose-window,  through 

34 


GRAY    MIST 

which  the  low  moon  spread  patches  of  brilliant  color 
across  the  rough  old  granite  pavement. 

Quickly  the  Cure  pushed  open  a  small  door  covered 
and  padded  with  faded  felt,  and  rushed  into  the  sacristy, 
where  the  aromatic  odor  of  centuries  of  incense  lingered. 
Away  up  among  the  groined  stone  arches  a  couple  of  bats 
were  circling  aimlessly,  and  at  the  opening  of  the  door 
one  of  them  swooped  down  with  a  curious,  baby -like 
squeak  to  investigate  the  intruder,  its  round,  beady  eyes 
shining  in  the  silvery  darkness  as  though  touched  with  a 
phosphor-point. 

Unhesitatingly,  M.  Kornog  turned  the  key  of  one  of  the 
carved  wooden  presses  with  which  the  lofty  little  room 
was  lined.  What  he  was  about  to  perpetrate  savored  of 
sacrilege  to  this  simple-minded,  faithful-hearted  priest, 
but  the  sacrifice  of  his  own  feelings  in  the  matter  had  been 
accomplished  when  he  had  selected  the  shorter  and  more 
practical  way  of  freeing  Pierrek.  With  a  slightly-shaking 
hand  he  seized  a  slender-necked,  silver-mounted  vessel 
standing  by  itself  upon  a  small  shelf.  That  it  contained 
a  sufficient  quantity  of  the  Sacred  Oil  for  his  purpose  he 
ascertained  by  holding  it  up  between  his  eyes  and  the 
white  moonshine  flooding  in  at  the  open  window,  then  he 
turned  brusquely,  with  a  half-smothered  sigh,  and  re- 
crossing  the  church  diagonally,  ran  out  into  the  night. 

Surely  at  that  moment  the  Cure  of  Kermarioker  must 
have  been  pleasing  in  the  sight  of  all  his  beloved  Breton 
Saints! 


CHAPTER  III 

Still  will  they  serve  the  Sea,  nor  aught  efface 

The  debt  that  holds  them  to  her  as  with  gyves, 
She  is  the  nursing  Mother  of  their  race, 
'  The  Mistress  of  their  lives. 

For  in  that  far  day  when  the  Heavens  did  fall, 

And  the  Earth  shook  they  weened  had  been  secure, 

She  drew  her  waves  about  them  like  a  wall 
And  kept  them  firm  and  sure. 

M.  M. 


"NONSENSE!"  the  Cure  of  Kermarioker  was  energet 
ically  saying,  while  dexterously  stoppering  some  fresh 
tobacco  into  his  favorite  briar;  "nonsense!  make  a  priest 
out  of  that  predestined  sailor  lad!  You  must  be  mad, 
Gwellan,  to  think  of  such  a  thing!" 

On  the  other  side  of  the  breakfast  -  table  the  Abbe 
Gwellan,  a  keen-faced  enthusiast,  tall,  amazingly  thin 
and  wiry,  whose  bright  hazel  eyes  retained  all  the  clear 
ness  of  youth,  and  did  not  belie  the  freshness  of  the  soul 
they  mirrored,  shifted  his  half-smoked  cigarette  from  the 
left  to  the  right  corner  of  his  mouth,  and  said,  quickly: 

"I'm  surprised  at  you,  Kornog;  really  one  would 
think  to  hear  you  that  our  sacred  calling  is  the  last  shift 
of  the  incompetent." 

"You  entirely  wrong  me  there,"  his  friend  and  host 
retorted,  with  some  heat;  "I  merely  stated  that  Pierrek 
is  not  of  the  stuff  from  which  good  priests  are  carved — • 
not  even  such  priests  as  you  and  I,  who  have  to  be  half 

36 


GRAY    MIST 

sailor,  half  doctor,  half  farmer,  and  half  a  dozen  other 
things  besides.  You  argue  from  what  I  told  you  about 
the  boy's  behavior  when  his  arm  was  caught  in  that  iron 
pipe  at  Kermario,  that  such  pluck  should  eventually  be 
turned  to  the  benefit  of  Mother  Church,  but  you  know  as 
well  as  I  do  that  what  we  need  in  our  branch  of  God's 
service  is  an  entirely  different  brand  of  courage  from 
that." 

M.  Gwellan  unceremoniously  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Twaddle,"  he  remarked,  dryly,  "mere  twaddle,  espe 
cially  coming  from  a  man  like  you,  whose  own  particular 
brand — since  that's  what  you  call  it — can  be  made  to 
cover  such  tall  principles  as — er — those  you  yourself  go 
by.  You  don't  esteem  physical  courage  in  a  priest! 
Why,  no  man  on  this  coast  has  taken  so  active  a  part  in 
life-saving  at  sea  as  you  have,  no  one  has  faced  con 
tagion,  dangers,  hardships,  or,  for  the  matter  of  that, 
beaten  down — er — temptations  of  every  kind  with  a  more 
cheerful  face — a  stouter  heart!" 

The  Curd  of  Kermarioker  dropped  his  pipe,  rose  so 
quickly  that  he  almost  overturned  his  chair,  and  strode 
to  the  broad  hearth,  where  an  ideal  fire  of  turf,  driftwood, 
and  pine-cones  curled  in  rainbow-tinted  flamelets  beneath 
the  huge  stone  chimney.  He  hated  praise,  this  modest 
village  priest,  and  resented  it  so  greatly,  even  from  this 
lifelong  friend,  that  for  a  moment  he  stood  with  his  back 
to  him,  gazing  angrily  into  the  red  heart  of  the  blaze, 
scarcely  redder,  however,  than  he  himself  had  become. 

"That's  right,"  drawled  M.  Gwellan,  "fly  into  a  rage 
now!  Annihilate  me!  I  am  your  guest,  and  therefore 
entirely  at  your  mercy!  Do  you  know,  my  Alanik,1  that 
for  a  priest" — and  he  gave  great  emphasis  to  the  word — 

1  Little  Alan. 
37 


GRAY    MIST 

"you  have  a  very  fiery  nature?  A  little  more  and  you 
would  have  thrown  something  at  my  head  just  now! 
Well,  well,  never  mind,  your  powers  of  persuasion,  mus 
cular  as  they  may  be — and  undoubtedly  are — have  no 
effect  on  me,  and  I  still  hold  by  the  theory  that  a  semi 
nary  is  the  right  place  for  Pierrek." 

M.  Kornog  whirled  round  in  his  customary  impulsive 
way,  but  amusement  danced  in  his  deep-set  eyes  now, 
and  the  flush  had  quite  receded  from  his  weather-beaten 
face. 

"Oh,  I  know  you  were  not  born  in  the  Monts  d'Arree 
for  nothing,"  he  exclaimed.  "You  and  your  parish 
ioners  possess  a  quality  of  stubbornness  before  which  all 
other  Breton  obstinacy  sinks  into  insignificance,  and  yet 
you  must  confess  that  the  atmosphere  of  the  seminary  is 
often  one  of  enervating  aesthetic  emotion.  Some  people, 
of  course,  mistake  this  for  holiness,  but  such  natures  as 
Pierrek's,  at  least,  are  better  out  of  it.  You  see  I  also 
cling  to  my  ideas." 

"I  never  doubted  that  you  would,"  was  the  half -dis 
couraged,  half -mocking  rejoinder.  "Still  you  are  a  mis 
creant,  old  friend,  and  it  will  be  well  for  you  not  to  air 
such  principles  too  freely  in  these  distracted  times  of 
ours." 

"Bah!  I  told  very  much  the  same  thing  to  Mon- 
seigneur  a  week  ago,"  the  Cure  laughed,  quietly  picking 
up  and  refilling  his  mishandled  briar. 

"What!"  almost  screamed  M.  Gwellan,  swinging  his 
chair  back  from  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees  to  the  per 
pendicular,  and  bending  eagerly  forward.  "You  told 
that  to  Monseigneur  de  Brazeuc!  And  may  I  inquire 
how  he  took  it?" 

"Certainly,  since  you  are  so  curious.  He  took  it 
laughing!  Don't  you  forget  that  Monseigneur  is  first  a 

38 


GRAY    MIST 

Breton  noble,  then  a  Prince  of  the  Church,  and  finally  a 
very  just  and  clear-sighted  man.  ...  I  ...  but  whom  have 
we  here?"  he  interposed,  as  the  door  slowly  swung  open 
to  admit  no  less  a  personage  than  Pierrek.  Pierrek,  alert 
from  head  to  foot  with  some  strong  emotion  that  dark 
ened  his  gray  eyes  to  a  shining  purple,  and  quivered  on 
his  rosy  lips. 

"What's  the  matter,  Moussaillon?"  his  patron  asked, 
stretching  out  a  kindly  hand  towards  the  gallant  little 
figure  in  woollen  jersey,  canvas  trousers,  and  bare  feet; 
for  naturally  the  small  sabots  had  been  respectfully  left 
outside  the  door,  together  with  the  inevitable  scarlet  beret. 

Quite  unembarrassed,  Pierrek  advanced  to  within  half 
a  foot  of  his  Cure,  and  gravely  shook  hands,  first  with 
him  and  then  with  the  other  Monsieur  Pretre  who  had 
risen  to  join  the  group  before  the  hearth.  "I'm  starting 
with  my  apprenticeship  next  week,  Monsieur  le  Recteur!" 
he  announced,  exultingly,  and  then  added,  in  still  more 
jubilant  tones,  "and  just  think  of  it,  it  will  be  deep- 
water  fishing  then,  miles  and  miles  off  coast!" 

The  two  priests  exchanged  a  swift  glance  over  the 
sunny  head  that  barely  came  to  their  elbows,  and  taking 
silence  for  approval  the  lad  continued: 

"I'll  be  father's  mousse,  and  be  signed  on  regularly  to 
earn  half  a  man's  share.  Next  Saturday  I  have  my 
baptism,  you  know,  Monsieur  le  Recteur!  It  will  be  at 
low  tide,  and  all  the  other  mousses  will  bury  me  up  to 
the  neck  in  the  wet  sand,  and  then  rub  me  all  over  with 
sea- weed,  singing  all  the  time  the  'Pligadur  an  den  meo.' 
Then  they'll  pour  a  pail  of  sea-water  over  my  head,  and 
give  me  my  new  name.  Cousin  Rodic  says  it  will  be 
Mor-Horc'h,1  most  likely,  because  I  swim  so  fast."  He 

1  Porpoise. 
39 


GRAY    MIST 

stopped  breathlessly,  all  a-quiver  with  delight,  and  M. 
Kornog,  happening  to  look  again  in  his  friend's  direction, 
could  scarcely  restrain  a  smile  at  the  latter's  comical  dis 
comfiture. 

"And  aren't  you  afraid  of  the  mousses' s  rough  hand 
ling?"  he  said,  tentatively.  "You  know,  mon  p'tit,  that 
they  don't  go  gently  about  it."  1 

"Afraid!  Who's  afraid,  Monsieur  le  Recteur?"  the 
boy  cried,  contemptuously.  "Not  we  of  Kermarioker, 
at  any  rate."  The  curious  cross  formed  when  he  frown 
ed  by  his  dark  eyebrows  meeting  upon  a  vertical  wrinkle 
gave  for  a  second  an  incredible  look  of  harshness  to  his 
handsome  brown  face.  Almost  at  once,  however,  the 
look  was  gone,  and  the  clear  voice  piped  forth  again  with 
renewed  energy,  "You  may  be  sure,  Monsieur  le  Recteur, 
that  when  I  am  mousse  you'll  never  lack  fine  mackerels, 
turbots,  and  lubines,  that  Mamm-Goz  Mari-Gwezek  will 
cook  for  your  dinner,  and  also  your  dejeuner  on  fast 
days." 

Suddenly  M.  Gwellan,  who  had  as  yet  said  nothing, 
bent  towards  Pierrek,  and,  touching  him  lightly  on  the 
shoulder,  asked,  almost  imploringly: 

"Would  you  not  rather  go  to  the  seminary,  Pierrek, 
in  order  later  on  to  become  a  learned  and  good  priest  of 
God,  like  Monsieur  le  Recteur?  There  are  fine  gardens 
at  the  seminary,  gardens  like  those  of  Kermario,  only 
tidier;  and  think  of  all  the  joys  that  would  await  you 
later,  of  the  grand  gold-and-silver  vestments  you  would 
don  on  feast  days,  of  the  beautiful  Pardons  you  would 
superintend,  of  the  good  you  could  do  to  your  parish!" 

He  stopped,  a  little  embarrassed  by  the  look  with 
which  his  small  listener  was  contemplating  him.  M. 

1  The  rough  play  alluded  to  has  in  some  instances  been  carried 
SO  far  as  to  cause  serious  injury. 

40 


GRAY    MIST 

Kornog,  watching  the  scene  from  within  the  shadows  of 
the  projecting  granite  chimney-piece,  was  careful  not  to 
interfere  by  word  or  gesture,  and  yet  there  was  a  sar 
castic  curl  of  the  firm  lips  that  still  further  disconcerted 
the  unhappy  Cure  of  Vilmenez  des  Monts  d'Arree.  He 
felt  that  his  attempted  effects,  dramatic  and  persuasive, 
had  fallen  absolutely  flat,  and  instantly  he  became  ten 
times  more  interested  yet  in  this  strange  boy,  who,  with 
one  solid  little  brown  paw  planted  on  each  hip,  chose  to 
remain  silent,  protesting  only  by  a  sudden  closing  of  two 
fresh  young  lips  and  a  peculiar  stony  stare  that  had  at 
the  first  words  transformed  his  bright  little  face. 

"Wouldn't  that  be  a  lot  better  than  having  to  earn 
your  bread  by  the  sweat  of  your  brow,  amid  stress  of 
storm,  and  danger  to  life  and  limb?"  the  enthusiast  re 
commenced,  waxing  eloquent  in  his  eagerness  to  con 
vince.  "Look  at  the  hardships  your  father  has  to  put 
up  with,  the  privations,  the  distress  in  winter,  when  the 
boats  can't  go  out  and  money  is  scarce.  A  bright,  lov 
able  gars  like  you  would  have  no  trouble  to  learn,  and  the 
good  fathers  are  so  kind  and  patient  and  liberal!  You'd 
like  it,  Pierrek,  I  assure  you."  As  he  ended  he  suddenly 
fixed  his  magnetic  gaze  intently  upon  the  silent  boy  in  a 
manner  he  had  often  found  effective,  and  which  showed 
that  he  was  accustomed  to  find  the  eyes  of  others  quail 
before  his  own.  Pierrek  met  the  masterful  look  with  a 
reserved  steadiness  more  difficult  to  deal  with  than  open 
defiance,  and  utterly  nonplussed,  M.  Gwellan  gave  to  his 
fellow-priest  an  appealing  glance,  in  which  the  latter  de 
tected  such  genuine  concern  that  he  instantly  moved 
forward. 

"Pierrek,"  he  said,  with  a  faint  touch  of  sternness, 
"don't  you  understand  what  Monsieur  le  Curd  is  taking 
the  trouble  to  explain  to  you?" 

41 


GRAY    MIST 

Pierrek  turned  brusquely  towards  his  own  Cure  with  a 
peculiar  gleam  in  his  eyes.  He  was  breathing  hard,  and 
red  waves  came  and  went  beneath  his  sunburned  skin. 
"  You  don't  wish  me  to  do  that;  it  isn't  you  who  thought 
of  it,  Monsieur  le  Recteur,"  he  at  last  said,  in  a  singularly 
hard  and  thoroughly  unchildish  voice.  He  came  near  to 
his  protector  —  quite  near,  until  his  rolled-up  woollen 
sleeve  touched  the  long  black  soutane.  "You  don't 
want  me  to  go  to  the  seminary,"  he  repeated,  through 
now  pitifully  trembling  lips,  the  sight  of  which  gave  the 
Cure  of  Vilmenez  genuine  remorse.  To  have  caused  such 
extreme  and  undeserved  pain  to  a  child  was  crime  un 
pardonable  in  his  eyes;  also  he  felt  keenly  what  an  un 
comfortable  dilemma  confronted  his  friend,  through  what 
he  felt  to  be  his  own  incorrigible  rashness  and  reluctance 
to  take  advice.  Powerless  to  avert  it,  he  saw  the  storm 
he  had  aroused  break,  and  stood  with  speechless  amaze 
ment  as  with  crimson  cheeks  and  flashing  eyes  Pierrek, 
shaking  all  over  with  wild  excitement,  poured  forth  his 
long-contained  wrath. 

"I  know  it  wasn't  you;  I  know  it  wasn't!"  he  was  say 
ing,  incoherently,  word  tripping  over  word  in  that  gut 
tural  Breton  speech  that  strangely  enough  seems  best 
fitted  to  express  ungovernable  rage  or  infinite  tenderness. 
' '  You  would  not  have  me  betray  the  sea.  ...  I  will  be  a 
fisherman  like  we  all  are  .  .  .  and  when  I  grow  up  I'll  be 
a  Terreneuvas  1  .  .  .  and  when  I  am  twenty-one  they'll 
give  me  the  blue  collar  and  red  pompon,  and  I'll  be 
Paotr-ar-gestel 2  and  fight  the  accursed  Saozons 3  to  the 
death.  .  .  .  I'll  ..." 

But  here  the  Curd,  who  had  been  wellnigh  as  greatly 

1  Cod-fisher  on  the  Newfoundland  and  Icelandic  routes. 

2  Topman  in  the  rigging  of  the  then  war-ships. 

3  Saxons,  the  English ;  detested  since  immemorial  time. 

42 


GRAY    MIST 

taken  aback  as  his  guest,  interrupted  the  indignant 
tirade. 

"Enough!"  he  said,  severely,  dropping  a  heavy  hand 
on  Pierrek's  arm.  "You  forget  yourself!"  and  without 
another  word  he  firmly  led  the  boy  from  the  room,  clos 
ing  the  door  behind  him. 

The  poor  Cure  of  Vilmenez,  left  alone,  positively  gasped. 
What  had  he  done?  Was  there  any  sense  in  a  man  of 
his  age  and  experience  making  so  ridiculous  a  faux-pas? 
Bitterly  did  he  anathematize  himself  for  his  folly,  and 
twice  did  he  approach  the  door  in  his  desire  to  beg  mercy 
for  the  young  culprit,  who  he  well  knew  would  not  es 
cape  punishment  at  the  hands  of  the  tender-hearted  but 
somewhat  impulsive  leader  of  the  Kermarioker  flock. 

The  early  brightness  of  the  cosey  dining-room  had  van 
ished  some  time  before,  and  a  sudden  shower  that  had 
driven  up  from  the  sea  began  to  drum  dismally  on  the 
sloping  glass  roof  of  the  tiny  adjoining  conservatory, 
built  by  M.  Kornog's  own  hands,  and  the  pride  of  his 
heart.  Chilly  gusts  of  wind  fluttered  the  snowy  window 
curtains,  and  with  an  exclamation  of  impatience  the 
Abbe  rose  to  close  it ;  having  done  so  he  remained  planted 
in  front  of  the  streaming  panes,  disconsolately  gazing 
out  upon  the  drenching  parterres. 

The  old  presbytery,  built  more  than  four  centuries  be 
fore,  of  that  finely-grained  granite  that  shows  age  merely 
by  toning  down  to  indescribably  mellow  shades  of  gray 
and  faint  green,  shot  with  overtones  of  silvery  rose,  stood 
with  a  somewhat  aggressive  air  of  solidity  in  the  exact 
centre  of  a  curiously  reposeful  and  methodical  garden;  a 
veritable  Jardin  de  Pretre,  cut  into  regular  squares  by 
narrow  paths  of  moss-grown  stone,  framed  on  each  side 
by  neatly -clipped  box  hedges,  and  borders  of  feathery 
white  carnations  that  bloomed  two-thirds  of  every  year 

4  43 


GRAY    MIST 

in  extraordinary  profusion.  The  eastward  end  of  the  lit 
tle  domain  was  surrounded  on  three  sides  by  high  walls, 
and  within  that  protective  semicircle,  espaliered  with 
gnarled  and  crooked  pear  and  peach  trees  of  great  fruit- 
fulness,  throve  quaint,  old-fashioned  vegetables  and  flow 
ers  in  perfect  amity;  here  great  lilac -tufted  clumps  of 
lavender  fraternized  with  verdant  rows  of  spinach;  there 
huge  bushes  of  cabbage-roses  scattered  their  deep-hued 
petals  between  the  trim  lines  of  a  company  of  carrots, 
and  farther  on  a  wide  square  of  artichokes,  frontiered  by 
thick  waves  of  curly-leaved  parsley,  was  poetized  by  the 
sweetly  -  fragrant  presence  of  myrtle  and  rosemary,  ar 
butus  and  laurel.  Nevertheless,  not  a  stalk  was  any 
where  out  of  place,  not  a  twig  so  indecorous  as  to  thrust 
its  next-door  neighbor  ungenerously  aside.  Monsieur  le 
Recteur  had  seen  to  that,  for  he  was  his  own  gardener, 
and  suffered  no  rioting  whatever,  even  of  Nature's  own 
making. 

Just  now  much  of  the  effect  had  disappeared  beneath 
the  veil  of  rain,  but  even  thus,  something  of  the  Curd's 
masterful  spirit  made  itself  so  evident  in  his  handiwork 
to  the  Abbe's  eye  that  a  momentary  smile  crossed  his 
disconsolate  face,  and  half  involuntarily  he  turned  to 
seek  similar  evidences  within.  Nor  were  they  difficult 
to  find.  The  modest  home,  inside  as  well  as  out,  was 
the  perfection  of  well-organized  order.  The  dark  wain- 
scotting  of  all  the  rooms  shone  like  polished  onyx,  the 
simple  but  massive  furniture,  dating  almost  as  far  back 
as  the  house  itself,  had  been  so  perseveringly  waxed  and 
rubbed  that  it,  too,  dazzled  the  eye,  and  in  each  cavern 
ous  window  merry  little  canaries  and  ruby-winged  gold 
finches  wagged  prosperous  tails  within  immaculate  brass 
cages  hung  above  square  boxes  of  scarlet  geraniums  that 
seemed  to  be  perpetually  in  full  bloom. 

44 


GRAY    MIST 

All  this  tidiness  by  no  means  excluded  comfort,  and 
even  here  and  there  a  thoroughly  artistic  touch,  for  there 
were  plain  but  comfortable-looking  red  serge  curtains  a 
la  Bretonne  to  the  windows  over  the  marvellously  white 
and  dainty  muslin  ones,  washed  and  washed  again  by 
the  faithful  housekeeper,  old  Mamm-Goz  Mari-Gwezek; 
here  and  there  an  antique  bahut,  crowned  by  a  few 
pieces  of  quaint  and  not  un valuable  bric-a-brac,  brought 
back  by  sailors  from  far-off  lands  to  their  beloved  Recteur ; 
all  this  bathed  in  a  subtle,  clean,  homely  odor  to  which 
the  smoke  of  good  tobacco  was  no  stranger. 

M.  Kornog's  own  particular  den  opening  from  the  din 
ing-room,  which  his  good  old  housekeeper  pompously 
called  the  salon,  much  to  her  master's  amusement,  was 
especially  characteristic  of  its  daily  occupant,  in  its 
mingled  expression  of  simplicity  and  efficiency.  Long, 
rather  than  wide,  it  was  low-ceiled,  and  lighted  only  by 
one  square  window  provided  with  a  broad  sill,  where  a 
collection  of  fuchsias,  of  which  he  was  inordinately 
proud,  basked  in  the  clear  light.  The  plain  desk  near 
the  window  was  a  model  of  tidiness,  in  spite  of  the  com 
paratively  enormous  mass  of  papers  and  documents  it 
supported.  A  row  of  prayer  and  mass  books  stood  in 
rigid  array  to  the  left  of  the  large  stone  inkstand;  to  the 
right,  on  a  square  block  of  black  marble,  a  small  bronze 
statue  of  "  Notre  Dame  de  la  Clarete  "  was  enthroned,  and 
behind  the  well-worn  blotter  sat  the  little  tin  cash-box 
containing  all  the  priest's  worldly  wealth.  Above  the 
truly  immense  open  fireplace  hung  a  wonderful  crucifix, 
hewn  in  high  relief  from  a  sheet  of  blue  granite,  and  pre 
sented  to  M.  Kornog  by  the  artist  himself,  a  Jesuit  Father 
of  extraordinary  talent,  who  had  been  at  the  seminary 
with  him  many  years  ago.  There  was  a  "grandfather's 
clock,"  too,  in  a  corner,  ticking  loudly  and  pleasantly, 

45 


GRAY    MIST 

with  a  cheerful  "whir"  of  slightly-fatigued,  old-fashioned 
wheels,  and  a  couple  of  large,  dark-oak  settees  on  each 
side  of  the  hearth,  which  the  delightful  host  called  les 
petits  coins  des  mes  enfants,  his  enfants  being,  of  course, 
the  poorest  among  his  flock.  Here  many  a  weary, 
heavy-hearted  fisherman  had  sat  of  a  winter  night,  to  go 
away  comforted  and  cheered,  less  by  the  aid  which,  de 
spite  his  poverty,  the  Cure"  would  always  contrive  to 
give,  than  by  the  spirits  of  rest  and  hope  which  made  this 
their  dwelling-place. 

It  was  here  that  after  pacing  up  and  down  restlessly 
for  a  while  M.  Gwellan  finally  ensconced  himself,  to  be 
come  absorbed  in  a  train  of  thought  so  intricate  and 
vexatious  that  he  did  not  hear  the  door  open,  nor  the 
brusque  swish  of  the  Cure's  long  soutane  along  the  daz- 
lingly  polished  floor. 

"Dreaming  again!"  the  hearty  voice  said,  at  his  shoul 
der,  and  with  a  nervous  start  the  poor  Abbe  turned  upon 
his  host  a  pair  of  startled,  vacant  eyes — not  innocent  of 
a  very  tell-tale  moisture. 

"What  have  you  done  with  him?"  he  asked,  anxiously, 
and  M.  Kornog  laughed. 

"Oh!  tell  me,  do,  please,"  repeated  the  other,  "what 
have  you  done  to  the  poor  little  mite?" 

"Placed  him  under  arrest  for  a  while,"  the  Cure"  an 
swered,  lightly,  almost  airily.  "But,"  he  added,  with  a 
humorous  twinkle  of  his  bright  eyes,  "he  is  not  to  be 
pitied,  for  he  is  sure  to  play  all  the  time  with  Gris-gris, 
my  African  parrot.  You  know  they  are  great  chums, 
those  two!" 

He  sat  down  in  a  deep  cane  fauteuil  near  the  window 
and  stretched  out  his  long  legs  with  a  jerk.  "As  I  have 
often  told  you,  my  dear  friend,"  he  said,  at  last,  "you 
take  things  too  much  to  heart.  Where  is  the  use  of 

46 


GRAY    MIST 

wasting  the  living  present  in  the  pursuit  of  impossible 
aims?" 

M.  Gwellan  glanced  furtively  towards  his  companion's 
hands,  which  were  lying  strong  and  quiescent  upon 
either  knee.  Then  he  answered,  in  a  low  voice: 

"One  cannot  make  one's  self  over  again,  and  it  is  my 
nature,  it  appears,  to  pursue  unattainable  ideals." 

The  Cure  did  not  change  countenance.  "Yes,"  he 
said,  absently,  "and  it  is  that  perhaps  which  makes  you 
a  better  priest  than  I  ...  but  still,  you  see,  I  am  never 
blind  to  the  fact  that  God  arranges  everything  for  the 
best,  and  gives  to  each  and  every  one  a  fitting  aptitude 
— an  allotted  task.  'Chacun  son  metier,'  you  know,  'et 
les  troupeaux  sont  bien  gardes.'" 


CHAPTER  IV 

Since  Law  and  Church  alike,  said  they. 

Hold  us  beyond  the  pale, 
We'll  hew  us  out  a  God  that  may 

Befriend  the  fvirtive  sail. 

Our  Priest  be  he  who  best  may  see 

To  tread  our  covert  ways, 
Our  Law  whate'er  by  foul  or  fair 

May  beat  the  Douaniers. 

M.  M. 

THE  rain  that  had  set  in  "just  before  sunset" — a  sure 
sign,  as  all  coast  people  will  tell  you,  of  its  enduring  in 
tentions — had  splashed  wickedly  for  four  whole  days  and 
nights,  transforming  the  sandy  lanes  of  Kermarioker  into 
a  disheartening  chaos  of  soupy  ruts  and  miry  puddles. 

Sunk  to  the  breast  in  a  cabbage-field  abutting  on  the 
shingle,  Pierrek  was  watching  with  sullen,  reproachful 
eyes  the  creaming  crests  of  enormous  waves  break  into 
swirls  of  suddenly  discolored  foam  at  the  very  foot  of  the 
hedge-row — a  height  they  seldom  attained.  All  around 
him  the  riotous  cabbages  formed  other  waves,  ponderous 
and  superb,  the  hues  of  which  comprised  every  green, 
every  blue,  and  every  purple  to  be  found  on  nature's 
palette,  pailletted  with  moisture,  and  slashed  with  bands 
of  sable  shadow,  where  deep  furrows  ran  beneath  the 
rich  gofferings  of  a  thousand  leathery  leaves. 

Pierrek's  crimson  b£ret  above  this  ocean  of  verdure, 
looked  like  a  slightly-faded  poppy  of  unusual  dimensions 

48 


GRAY    MIST 

with  which  the  wind  had  made  sport  to  the  shredding 
point,  while  the  blue  of  his  woollen  shirt  melted  almost 
indistinguishably  into  that  of  the  cabbage's  velvety 
under-foliage.  Heedless  of  the  furious  blasts  that  shook 
everything  within  sight,  he  centred  his  whole  attention 
upon  the  sea,  dirty  and  thick  with  sand  and  floating 
wrack,  hardly  able  to  restrain  his  anger  at  such  treachery 
— for  how  could  he  ever  become  a  mousse  if  right  at  the 
start  she  herself  retarded  his  apprenticeship  by  blocking 
the  Stereden-Ab-Vor  in  harbor. 

The  wild  day  was  swiftly  drawing  to  a  premature  and 
stormy  close.  A  few  moments  more,  and  only  a  shredded 
remnant  of  clear  storm-light  remained,  trailing  over  the 
line  of  pines  that  terminated  the  field  towards  the  west; 
rugged  trunk  after  rugged  trunk  bent  by  the  eternal  blast 
into  all  sorts  of  extravagant  shapes,  and  tossing  about 
flattened  crowns  of  thick-set  needles  that  looked  like 
overgrown  dust  mops  set  there  on  purpose  to  sweep  the 
murky  atmosphere. 

Poor  Pierrek  strained  his  eyes  to  catch  a  glimpse  of 
evening  blue  amid  the  warring  clouds  overhead.  Juste 
de  quoi  faire  une  culotte  de  matelot  would,  as  the  old  saying 
goes,  be  fully  sufficient  to  insure  a  speedy  change  of 
weather,  but  his  search  remained  unrewarded,  and  with 
a  sigh  amounting  almost  to  a  groan  he  turned  away. 
How  dismally  the  wind  shrieked!  Would  it  never,  never 
lighten  ?  With  a  quick  snap  of  his  strong  white  teeth  he 
remembered  that  the  storm-signals  were  up  at  the  sema 
phore,  and  that  only  last  night  a  number  of  frightened 
onion-boats  had  scudded  for  refuge  into  Kermarioker 
harbor,  where  the  great,  green  waves  were  tumbling  over 
the  pier  with  a  sound  like  the  booming  of  many  guns. 
Indeed,  all  this  put  together  seemed  sufficient  to  crush  the 
toughest  of  all  youthful  "hope  against  hope"  endurance. 

49 


GRAY    MIST 

A  shrill  whistle,  modulated  after  the  fashion  of  a  lap 
wing's  rallying  cry,  flying  down-wind  from  the  direction 
of  home,  roused  the  fretting  lad  from  his  fevered  absorp 
tion,  and  made  him  tear  himself  with  the  utmost  rapidity 
from  the  tough  and  dripping  embrace  of  the  cabbages, 
for  his  father's  summons  was  not  a  thing  to  disregard 
even  for  a  second. 

"Range  alongside  there,  Good -for -naught!"  Herve 
Rouzik  called  out  in  his  best  storm-voice  as  soon  as  the 
hope  of  his  house  came  scampering  into  view.  "Been 
watching  the  weather  again,  eh?  Well,  my  little  lad, 
you'll  have  to  learn  before  you  deserve  half  a  man's 
share  and  wage  that  patience  is  what  a  fisherman  needs 
most." 

"But,  father,"  Pierrek  argued,  despairingly,  "I've  had 
lots  of  it  these  four  long  days,  and  its  not  been  a  bit  of 
use." 

But  nerve*  Rouzik  was  not  a  man  to  waste  words  over 
a  profitless  argument.  What  he  had  just  said,  obviously, 
met  the  needs  of  the  moment,  so  he  merely  shook  the 
mist-drops  from  the  brim  of  his  sou'wester  preparatory 
to  leading  the  way  towards  the  inviting  odor  of  soupe  an 
lard  stealing  from  the  open  door  of  his  cosey  cottage. 

"You'll  have  your  chance  sooner  than  you  expect," 
he  at  length  vouchsafed  to  remark,  turning  upon  the 
threshold  and  pointing  a  large,  steady  hand  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  muddy  sea  and  dirty  gray  sky.  And  there, 
yes,  just  where  the  dingy  gray  and  dingier  green  merged 
into  one,  a  narrow  spot  of  dull -yellow  was  piercing 
through.  "That!"  commented  Rouzik,  is  meant  for  the 
setting  sun,  and  if  we  can  see  that  much  the  storm's 
ended!  All  I  hope,"  he  concluded,  as  he  disappeared 
within,  followed  by  the  overjoyed  Pierrek,  "is  that  your 
first  experience  won't  take  the  heart  out  of  you." 

5° 


GRAY    MIST 

During  the  night  the  weather  did  moderate,  and  the 
fog,  that  deadliest  foe  of  mariners,  blew  away  like  flakes 
of  cotton- wool,  to  be  tossed  by  the  wind  beyond  the 
allotted  limits  of  the  fishing-grounds. 

"We'll  go  out,  barring  fog — always  barring  fog,"  the 
Patron  had  said  to  his  little  son,  as  the  latter  excitedly 
disposed  his  brand-new  sabot-boots  and  sulphur-hued 
cirage  within  arm's  -  length  of  his  solid  bee  'h-in1  stuffed 
pillow.  "If  I  had  to  wait  six  months  I'd  do  it,  sooner 
than  go  out  on  this  coast  in  an  autumn  fog,  for  that 
means  disaster  as  sure  as  sure!" 

The  Stereden-Ab-Vor  swung  round  the  pier-head  next 
morning  on  the  shoulder  of  a  gigantic  wave  that  turned 
her  over  till  her  stout,  rounded  sides  gleamed  like  a 
whale's  back,  and  then  went  crashing  into  the  seas  at  a 
splendid  rate  of  speed,  each  successive  comber  parting  in 
green-and-white  hillocks  on  each  side  of  her  blunt  bows. 
The  Patron,  from  his  post  at  the  rudder,  glanced  keenly 
at  the  small  form  of  his  new  mousse  crouching  close  be 
neath  the  weather  bulwark,  his  rosy  face  and  dancing 
eyes  peering  bravely  from  beneath  the  broad  brim  of  his 
gleaming  sou'wester,  and  with  an  approving  nod  of  the 
head  audibly  grunted  his  satisfaction.  This,  however, 
was  but  the  start,  and  it  remained  to  be  seen  how  the 
boy  would  acquit  himself  during  an  experience  that 
Herve  knew  well  might  prove  discouraging  to  much 
older  hands. 

In  truth,  the  Stereden  soon  began  to  do  some  really 
tall  climbing,  seeming  at  times  to  be  endowed  with  a 
positively  diabolical  ability  to  outcurvet  the  waves  them 
selves,  and  danced  along  to  the  wind's  sour  piping  in  a 
manner  well  calculated  to  upset  the  best  seasoned  stom- 

1  A  variety  of  curly  wrack  used  in  Brittany  to  fill  cushions, 
pillows,  and  hassocks. 


GRAY    MIST 

ach.  Through  it  all,  nevertheless,  the  sea-born,  sea-bred 
boy  maintained  the  uncommon  self-possession  that  had 
stood  him  in  such  good  stead  on  another  and  yet  more 
dangerous  occasion  of  his  short  life,  frequently  cocking 
his  eye  aloft  to  send  ludicrously  knowing  glances  into 
the  rigging,  or  laughing  in  pure  delight  when  the  great 
russet  mainsail  swooped  down  almost  horizontally  above 
his  head  as  the  chaloupe  reared  up  on  end  in  one  of  her 
astonishing  capers. 

Time  wore  on  without  the  slightest  opportunity  of 
dropping  net  or  line  over  the  side,  and  the  Patron's  thick 
eyebrows  were  more  than  once  drawn  together  in  annoy 
ance  beneath  their  stinging  crust  of  salt,  for  he  was  begin 
ning  seriously  to  doubt  the  possibility  of  re  -  entering 
Kermarioker  harbor  before  next  morning's  tide.  The 
weather  had  once  more  thickened,  the  dreaded  fog  was 
sneaking  coastward  from  the  now  indistinguishable 
horizon  line,  and  the  prospect  of  a  long  night's  wild  toss- 
ings  under  a  minimum  of  canvas  did  not  commend  itself 
to  Rouzik,  especially  when  he  thought  of  his  little  wife's 
agonized  vigil  far  back  there  on  that  rock-bound  shore 
which  they  of  the  Stereden  had  long  since  lost  sight  of. 

The  only  alternative,  and  that  by  no  means  a  brilliant 
one,  was  to  try  and  take  shelter  at  the  Mean-Azen-lidigez 
— such  precarious  shelter  as  the  narrow  fissure  could 
afford  which  serves  that  grim  fortress  of  blue-black  rock 
as  an  apology  for  a  harbor.  The  dilemma  was  indeed  so 
vexatious  that  the  master  of  Kermarioker's  best  fishing- 
smack  indulged  in  a  string  of  expletives,  underlined  by 
more  than  one  "red  hell  of  a  malediction" — but  fortu 
nately  for  Pierrek's  tender  ears  the  wind  appropriated 
them  and  whirled  them  derisively  far  astern. 

Cautiously,  feeling  his  way  with  the  sureness  of  touch 
and  keenness  of  judgment  for  which  he  was  justly  re- 

52 


GRAY    MIST 

nowned,  Herve  Rouzik  began  to  tack  in  the  direction  of 
those  jagged  bastions  showing  faintly  now  and  again,  as 
Chinese  shadow  -  pictures  do,  behind  an  undulating  cur 
tain  of  iron-gray  vapors  flecked  with  spindrift.  A  wave 
of  the  Patron's  hand  had  sufficed  to  acquaint  the  crew 
with  this  change  of  destination,  and  Pierrek,  catching  on 
the  wing  as  it  were  the  words  Mean-Azen-lidigez — a  name 
to  conjure  with  in  far-off  Finisterre — positively  jumped 
for  joy,  forgetting,  alas!  the  precarious  nature  of  the 
flooring  rising  and  falling  beneath  his  still  inexperienced 
feet,  so  that  he  went  rolling  head  over  heels  among  the 
empty  fish -baskets  amidships.  In  a  second  he  was  up 
again,  fixing  his  bright  glance  on  the  crew  as  if  daring 
them  one  and  all  to  laugh  at  him,  for  he  was  a  sensitive 
little  chap,  was  Master  Pierrek,  and  it  was  only  when 
completely  reassured  on  that  score  that  he  once  more 
turned  his  delighted  attention  towards  the  fast  nearing 
goal  of  his  greatest  ambition — namely,  the  mysterious 
and  uninhabited  islet  of  bleak  cliffs  that  is  called  the 
"Sacrificial  Stones." 

There  it  loomed  above  the  gray,  savage  sea,  not  a  mile 
away  now,  the  waves  leaping  hungrily  to  leeward,  and 
buffeting  the  great,  sombre  mass  with  their  towering 
crests  of  foam.  Again  and  again  as  the  Stereden-Ab-Vor 
sank  into  the  furrows,  the  eager  lad  could  just  see  a 
jagged  pinnacle  frowning  at  him  over  the  edge  of  a  steep 
roller,  then  the  next  instant  the  dripping  chaloupe  would 
be  flung  out  upon  a  breaking  crest,  and  the  vast  rock 
stood  once  more  revealed  in  all  its  naked  splendor. 
Thicker  and  thicker  grew  the  storm  of  spray  that  drove 
along  the  face  of  the  waters,  for  as  Herve  had  feared,  a 
regular  northwesterly  gale  was  blowing  up,  and  the 
weather  was  getting  every  moment  heavier.  Certainly 
the  landing  just  now  would  not  be  "a  bobby's  job,"  and 

S3 


few  steersmen  could,  as  did  the  Patron,  have  picked  the 
gaps  and  valleys  athwart  each  breaker,  and  threaded  the 
one  comparatively  safe  channel  among  the  whirling  cur 
rents.  At  this  moment  there  was  not  merely  annoyance 
in  his  face,  but  the  stubborn  and  resolute  expression  of  a 
man  not  accustomed  to  take  a  beating — a  look  of  mastery, 
in  fact,  which  would  not  tally  with  failure  in  the  past  nor 
in  the  present  instant  of  stress. 

The  mist  was  racing  towards  them  from  the  shrouded 
horizon  line,  opening  up  here  and  there  into  long  corri 
dors  as  the  rapidly  increasing  wind  tore  its  way  through, 
and  it  was  in  short,  quick  tones  that  somehow  rang  out 
absolutely  distinct,  even  in  this  sound-swallowing  atmos 
phere,  that  Herve  Rouzik  gave  his  commands.  Already 
Pierrek  could  hear  the  rush  of  water  over  ledges  and 
fissures,  and  then  the  "glouff-glouff"  of  the  waves  being 
sucked  away  to  make  room  for  others  more  mountainous 
still.  At  last  the  sheets  were  made  fast,  the  shivering 
chaloupe  jammed  through  a  narrow  neck  between  two 
huge,  misshapen  pillars  of  almost  black  basalt,  and  finally 
brought  to  within  the  dark  compass  of  the  only  cleft  that 
penetrated  those  solid  ramparts,  gleaming  like  polished 
onyx  beneath  the  sinister  storm-light. 

With  an  eagerness  that  nearly  cost  him  another  and 
more  serious  tumble,  Pierrek  scrambled  over  the  still 
heavily  rocking  side  into  a  waist-high  feather-bed  of 
froth,  and  without  waiting  for  the  others,  clambered  up 
a  slippery  ladder  of  bowlders,  pursued  by  the  lapping 
tongues  of  an  incoming  wave. 

As  after  a  stiff  climb  he  set  foot  on  the  crown  of  the 
island,  the  whole  place  whirled  into  tumultuous  life,  and 
above  his  head  a  cloudy  army  of  startled  gulls  and  shear 
waters  massed  themselves  into  screeching  battalions — 
their  lifelong  quarrels  a  thing  forgotten  in  face  of  the 

54 


GRAY    MIST 

enemy — before  noisily  disappearing  to  seek  shelter  else 
where.  Pierrek,  however,  gave  but  a  passing  thought  to 
the  singular  lack  of  manners  displayed  by  these  inhos 
pitable  islanders,  as  compared  to  his  own  feathered  friends 
back  there  on  Cape  Kermario,  and  delightedly  pursued  his 
explorations — though  slowly  now,  in  deference  to  shouts 
from  the  rear — along  the  barren  stretches  of  sandy  grass, 
all  whitened  with  salt  and  spume,  and  tufted  here  and 
there  with  low-growing  clumps  of  thistles  and  rusty  green 
mallows. 

Soon  his  father  and  the  equipage  caught  up  with  him, 
and  they  pursued  their  way  together  through  the  gather 
ing  dusk  to  a  point  on  the  cliff-edge  where  a  dripping 
flight  of  natural  steps  slanted  giddily  down,  apparently 
into  the  very  heart  of  the  wild  roarings  and  bellowings 
of  the  tormented  sea.  One  glance  over  the  verge  would 
have  been  sufficient  for  most  wayfarers,  even  were  they 
trained  mountaineers,  and  yet  men  and  boy,  cumbered 
by  their  heavy  clothing  and  loose  sabot-boots  reaching 
to  the  thigh,  went  leisurely  down  depth  after  depth  as  if 
entirely  unconscious  of  the  vicious  efforts  of  the  wind 
to  blow  such  human  flies  into  eternity.  Half-way  to  the 
bottom,  Herve,  who  was  leading,  stopped,  and  signalled 
to  the  others  to  do  likewise.  He  had  reached  a  ledge  of 
some  breadth,  forming  a  sort  of  terraced  approach  to 
the  narrow  entrance  of  a  cave — a  refuge  resorted  to  by 
the  sailors  of  the  fishing-fleet  only  on  strictly  unavoid 
able  occasions  like  the  present,  for  it  "enjoys,"  as  we 
say  in  Breton,  a  very  evil  name!  Nothing  in  its  aspect 
justifies  this  reputation;  indeed,  the  gemlike  lustre  of 
its  capriciously  veined  inner  surfaces,  the  delicate  colora 
tions  of  the  boldly  arching  vault  and  walls,  that  range 
from  deepest  sapphire  blue  to  exquisite  shades  of  emerald 
and  malachite,  glaucous  topaz  and  pale  amethyst,  slashed 

55 


here  and  there  by  narrow  streaks  of  shining  mica,  make 
of  the  place  a  retreat  fit  for  Ahes  herself;  and  yet,  though 
the  reason  is  known  to  few,  the  legendary  awe  which 
invests  the  Mean-Azen-lidigez  is  as  deeply  rooted  in  the 
hearts  of  all  coast  Bretons  as  the  lonely  rocks  themselves 
in  the  bosom  of  the  everlasting  surge. 

Herve  and  his  little  company  at  once  proceeded  to 
make  themselves  as  snug  as  circumstances  permitted, 
for  by  now  the  huge  stormy  night  was  at  hand.  The 
wind  had  still  increased,  if  such  a  thing  was  possible,  and 
filled  the  cave  with  wild  gusts  that  smelled  of  brine  and 
violets,  and  swept  out  again  to  scoop  up  the  crests  of  the 
warring  waves,  and  fling  them  like  whirling  snow  high 
up  in  the  air.  No  one  spoke,  for  Bretons  are  not  talka 
tive,  and  Pierrek  alone  fidgeted,  his  gray  eyes  gleaming 
in  the  faint  light  of  the  horn  lantern  around  which  they 
sat,  his  whole  countenance  quivering  with  excitement 
and  unsatisfied  curiosity,  for  so  far  he  had  seen  only  a 
cave — not  quite  an  ordinary  one,  it  is  true,  since  it  hung 
between  sea  and  sky,  instead  of  opening  straight  upon 
the  shingle  as  other  caves  do,  but  where  was  the  mystery 
concealed,  that  secret  horror  sometimes  whispered  around 
the  hearth  on  long  winter  evenings,  when  children  are 
already  shuttered  inside  the  lit-clos  and  have  to  strain 
their  ears  so  hard  to  catch  a  word  here  and  there?  He 
would  have  given  much  to  question  his  father,  but  that 
he  dared  not  do,  and  with  an  impatience  hardly  to  be 
controlled,  he  waited  until  the  last  mouthful  of  the  frugal 
supper  had  been  leisurely  swallowed,  and  the  Patron  and 
his  men  had  lain  down  upon  the  shelving  stone  floor  in 
the  easy,  nonchalant  way  of  the  hardened  sailor,  to  snatch 
what  sleep  they  might.  He  himself  had  been  perempto 
rily  bidden  to  do  likewise,  and  during  a  half -hour  which 
seemed  as  long  as  a  year,  he  forced  himself  to  remain 

56 


GRAY    MIST 

motionless,  flat -on  his  back,  a  little  behind  the  others. 
At  last,  however,  a  chorus  of  sonorous  snores,  alternating 
with  the  roar  of  the  flying  squalls  outside,  reassured  him, 
and  with  wholly  useless  precaution  he  noiselessly  rose  to 
his  feet,  from  which  he  had  slipped  the  clattering  sabot- 
boots  on  lying  down. 

Slowly  he  tiptoed  to  the  entrance,  and  stood  for  a  few 
moments  braced  against  a  small  spur  of  rock  running  a 
quarter  of  the  way  across,  looking  intently  into  the  night. 
Below  him  were  many  fathoms  of  intense  darkness,  light 
ened  at  their  deepest  depth  by  the  white  cataracts  of  in 
and  out  rushing  breakers,  while  immediately  at  his  feet 
bastion  after  bastion  of  broken  and  crenellated  rock  fell 
abruptly  away  into  the  howling  gloom.  This  was  de 
cidedly  unsatisfactory,  and  with  a  quickly  repressed  sigh 
he  turned  and  prosecuted  his  search  softly  along  the 
entire  length  of  the  cave,  to  find  that  in  the  most  ap 
proved  and  romantic  fashion  it  terminated  in  a  sort  of 
strangled  corridor,  quickly  diminishing  to  a  mere  fissure 
within  the  granite  bulk  of  the  island.  Its  floor  was  not 
level  with  that  of  the  cave,  but  gradually  descended  to 
no  inconsiderable  depth.  Without  a  moment's  hesita 
tion  the  foolhardy  boy  entered  where  none  had  certainly 
been  before,  since  a  few  paces  within  there  was  no  passage 
for  a  full-grown  man,  and  began  to  work  his  way  forward, 
sometimes  on  all  fours,  and  sometimes  upright,  according 
to  the  space  afforded  by  the  more  or  less  irregular  twists 
and  windings  of  the  crevice. 

Yard  after  yard  he  wormed  laboriously  along  through 
the  pitchy  blackness,  impelled  by  a  wild  and  reckless 
curiosity,  ears  and  eyes  keenly  on  the  alert,  for,  since  no 
other  covert  was  afforded,  it  must  surely  be  here  that  the 
secret  lay  enshrined.  In  a  few  moments,  however,  the 
fissure  grew  to  be  so  tight  a  fit  that  even  breathing  be- 

57 


GRAY    MIST 

came  something  of  a  problem.  Thereupon  the  bold  dis 
coverer,  by  no  means  disheartened,  paused  to  take  coun 
sel  with  himself,  and  just  at  that  moment  a  deeper,  more 
resonant  note  than  that  of  the  storm — dwindled  in  this 
gut  to  a  mere  shell-like  murmur  —  struck  his  ear,  and 
caused  a  shiver  of  half -terrified,  half -delighted  anticipa 
tion  to  run  down  his  back. 

One  wriggle  more,  and  he  felt  the  roof  recede.  Rising 
to  his  knees,  he  peered  from  side  to  side,  listening  with 
all  his  might,  and  yes,  there  a  little  to  the  left,  above  his 
head,  which  he  craned  backward  almost  to  the  disloca 
tion  point,  he  discerned  a  curious,  fiery  glow. 

Pierrek  was  an  uncommonly  courageous  lad,  but  still 
it  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty  that  he  succeeded  in  not 
shrieking  aloud,  and  small  blame  to  him  too,  under  such 
circumstances. 

"The  witches!"  he  muttered,  crossing  himself  energet 
ically — "the  witches!"  and  then  suddenly  an  irresistible 
desire  to  see,  whatever  the  cost,  came  over  him  like  a 
wave  of  warmth,  dissolving  at  once  all  the  chill  of  his 
terror.  He  straightened  himself  cautiously  to  his  full 
height  and  reached  up  with  both  hands.  Again  the 
sound  he  had  heard  before,  weird  and  singularly  harmo 
nious,  came  floating  down  to  him,  and  casting  all  prudence 
to  the  winds,  he  clutched  and  pawed  and  scrambled 
about  until,  swinging  himself  free  from  the  ground,  he 
began  to  rise  as  he  had  once  seen  a  little  sweep  from 
Auvergne  do  in  the  chimney  at  home,  striving  with  all 
his  might  to  reach  the  spot  whence  shone  that  inexpli 
cable  luminance.  Muttering  impatiently  to  himself  at 
the  exasperating  slowness  of  his  progress,  he  yet  took  full 
advantage  of  every  crack  or  projection  which  might  aid 
him  upward,  and  that  with  a  tenacity  and  a  consummate 
skill  that  many  a  professional  mountaineer  might  have 

58 


GRAY    MIST 

envied;  continuing  his  perilous  struggle  until  his  muscu 
lar  little  arms  were  stiff,  and  his  fingers  almost  power 
less  with  fatigue,  scratched  and  bruised  from  tip  to 
palm. 

But  everything  comes  to  an  end — generally  a  successful 
one  when  strength  of  mind  and  strength  of  body  strive 
for  it  in  perfect  unison — and  at  last  Pierrek  found  him 
self  clinging  to  the  lip  of  an  irregular  gap  some  few  inches 
wide  and  about  a  foot  and  a  half  long,  immediately  sur 
mounting,  as  luck  would  have  it,  a  broad  knob,  or  rather 
"saddle,"  as  the  cliff-climbers  say.  Upon  this  he  hoisted 
himself. 

For  a  few  seconds  he  did  not  venture  to  look  through 
this  arduously  attained  loop-hole,  through  which  nothing 
now  came  but  a  whispering  silence,  and  an  intensified 
crimson  glow!  What  was  he  going  to  see?  A  dance  of 
long-toothed  dishevelled  witches,  a  ronde  of  Kourrigans, 
or  perchance  the  Diaoul 1  himself,  surrounded  by  his 
legions  of  Aerevent!2  Truly  his  heart  misgave  him,  and 
as  he  clung  trembling  within  arm's-length  of  this  tanta 
lizing  mystery,  a  voice  powerful  and  profound  broke  into 
a  chant  that  vibrated  louder  and  louder  as  it  rose  from 
some  unknown  depth.  The  stupefied  listener,  with  a 
sense  at  once  of  extraordinary  relief  and  of  faint  disap 
pointment — for  surely  gnomes  and  fairies,  devils  and 
witches,  must  needs  have  a  language  of  their  own — re 
cognized  the  ring  of  plain,  every-day  Breton. 

"Lavar  d'un  petra  eo  unam."  3 

These  words,  solemnly  repeated  three  times,  were  fol 
lowed  by  a  pause,  then  another  voice — shrill  this  one  and 
piercing  exceedingly — responded  with  extreme  assurance: 

"An  Stron-Varia  hep  ken  penhini  'zo  en  nef!" 

1  Devil.  2  Evil  angels.  3  Tell  me  who  is  the  one  ? 

4  Our  Lady  and  none  else  aloft  in  the  skies. 

s  59 


GRAY    MIST 

With  a  little,  choking  gasp  Pierrek  brought  his  eyes  to 
the  level  of  the  loop-hole  and  looked. 

"Lots  of  people  around  a  big  Sainte  Vierge /"  he  whis 
pered  to  himself,  and  that,  indeed,  was  all  he  could  at 
first  be  certain  of,  thanks  to  the  singular  illumination  of 
the  great  cavern  beneath  him,  but  his  eyes  gradually 
becoming  accustomed  to  the  smoky  glow  of  a  hundred 
resinous  torches,  fastened  by  iron  rings  to  blood-red 
granite  walls  that  arched  upward  into  a  vast  impending 
vault  of  darkness,  he  saw  that  the  central  object  was  in 
fact  an  image,  but  not  of  the  Virgin. 

It  was  a  great  wooden  siren,  as  Pierrek  knew  from 
having  seen  figure-heads  not  dissimilarly  made,  holding 
aloft  in  her  right  hand  a  rusted  iron  oar.  She  stood  upon 
a  pedestal  directly  opposite  a  sinister -looking  natural 
monolith  of  the  cavern's  blood-red  stone  that  occupied 
the  exact  centre  of  the  illuminated  space,  and  so  closely 
resembled  a  tomb  adorned  with  a  carven  drapery  that 
Pierrek  exclaimed  "Mean-Bez!"  1  at  the  sight  of  it. 

The  face  of  this  wooden  image,2  painted  in  crude  colors 
and  surrounded  by  stiff,  gorgon-like  tresses  of  dazzling 
orange -gold,  bore  an  expression  of  petrified  rage  and 
hatred;  the  coarse  lips  drawn  back  in  a  savage  snarl, 
uncovered  sharp  teeth  set  far  apart,  and  the  light-blue 
eyes  staring  between  gaping  lids  were  fierce  and  cruel 
beyond  compare.  Shells  and  marine  incrustations  still 
clung  to  her  rigid  red  robe,  and  here  and  there  a  splash 
of  gold  paint  roughly  applied  caught  the  glare  of  the 

1  A  tomb. 

2  What  follows  is  actual  fact.     This  statue — the  figure-head  of 
some  long  sunken  ship — was  washed  ashore  many  years  ago,  and 
was  adopted  by  the  Breton  smugglers  as  their  patron  saint  under 
the  name  of  "Notre  Dame  de  la  Fraude" — literally,  "Our  Lady 
of  Smuggling."     The  author  as  a  child  chanced  by  accident  to 
witness  the  scenes  and  ceremonies  described  here. 

60 


GRAY    MIST 

torches.  Of  a  truth,  it  was  an  appalling  apparition,  so 
much  worse  than  any  Croquemitaine  poor  Pierrek  had 
ever  heard  of,  that  his  hair  began  to  prickle  all  over  his 
head,  but  just  then  his  attention  was  distracted  by  the 
singular  aspect  and  behavior  of  those  whom  he  rightly 
took  to  be  her  worshippers,  ranged  before  her  in  a  jost 
ling  and  unquiet  semicircle.  That  these  were  tuerien 
— smugglers — he  saw  at  once,  for  there  were  many  faces 
down  there  not  unknown  to  him,  but  why  they  were  dis 
guised  as  professional  mendicants,  and  why  each  of  them 
wore  attached  to  his  picturesque  rags  a  cluster  of  purple 
fox-glove,  he  could  not  understand.  A  formidable  assem 
bly  of  the  giants  of  the  sea  this,  and  an  awe-inspiring, 
especially  just  now,  when  each  brawny  right  hand  bran 
dished  a  murderous  pen-baz,1  and  each  left  grasped  a 
flask  of  calvados,  the  fiery  Breton  brandy!  One  who  ap 
peared  to  be  their  chief  —  a  huge,  gaunt  man,  strong- 
jawed  and  red-haired,  was  facing  them,  his  back  turned 
upon  the  great  idol,  and  as  he  stood  in  priestly  attitude 
with  out-stretched  hands,  an  older  observer  than  the  little 
mousse  might  have  divined  that  he  had  but  just  com 
pleted  the  recital  of  some  strange  and  blasphemous  litany. 
In  fact,  it  was  only  when  much  older  and  enriched  by 
that  experience  which  unlocks  the  treasures  hoarded  by 
a  childish  receptivity,  that  the  details  of  this  scene 
which  he  witnessed  at  such  great  personal  risk,  recalled 
themselves  to  Pierrek. 

In  a  moment  more  the  chief's2  hand  was  raised  to  his 
broad-leafed  feltr,3  and  he  uncovered,  everybody  following 

1  Long  wooden  club. 

2  In  Breton  "Gourc  'he'mmener"  (commander)  or   "  Pen-Mil  - 
Deu"   (chief  of  a  thousand  men),  title  of  the  so-called  grand- 
priest  of  the  smugglers. 

3  Chouan  hat  made  of  shaggy  black  felt. 

61 


GRAY    MIST 

his  example.  Then,  after  a  deep  obeisance,  he  dipped  a 
thick  bunch  of  finely-curling  marine  weed  into  a  barrel 
of  sea-water,  and  reverently  performed  a  perfectly  ortho 
dox  Asperges,  plentifully  sprinkling  the  ghastly  statue, 
before  handing  the  sparf  1  to  one  who  appeared  to  be  his 
next  in  rank.  The  ceremony  was  performed  in  absolute 
silence,  seemingly  with  a  deep  religious  solemnity,  and  it 
was  only  when  the  last  smuggler  had  had  his  turn,  and 
their  grim  goddess,  streaming  with  salt-water,  appeared 
to  have  been  but  just  drawn  from  the  waves  to  come  and 
preside  over  this  gathering  of  her  clan,  that  other  liba 
tions  were  attended  to;  these  of  a  more  inflammatory 
kind,  explaining  the  presence  of  the  countless  brandy 
bottles  that  at  first  sight  might  have  appeared  slightly 
out  of  place. 

Pierrek,  wearied  almost  to  exhaustion  by  his  neces 
sarily  cramped  immobility,  clung  on  desperately  and 
almost  automatically  during  the  bacchanalian  revel  in 
his  desire  to  see  what  was  coming  next,  and  his  endurance 
was  rewarded  by  seeing  the  chief  of  the  smugglers  sudden 
ly  straighten  himself  to  his  full  gigantic  height,  and,  turn 
ing  to  his  men,  prepare  to  address  them. 

"Brothers,"  he  said,  after  a  short  pause,  and  in  a  voice 
accustomed  to  carry  above  the  noise  of  sea  and  wind, 
"the  time  has  come  at  this  our  yearly  meeting  for  me  to 
invite  all  who  desire  to  continue  in  the  service  of  'Notre 
Dame  de  la  Fraude,'  to  raise  their  pen-baz,  and  all  who 
wish  to  leave  our  brotherhood  to  form  in  line  behind  me." 

A  forest  of  pen-baz  flew  up,  but  not  a  man  moved  from 
his  position,  and  for  a  few  moments  perfect  silence 
reigned  again. 

"Brothers,"  resumed  the  chief,  in  the  same  sonorous 

*  Aspersorium. 
62 


GRAY    MIST 

accents,  "I  rejoice  to  see  your  loyalty  to  Our  Lady,  and  1 
thank  you  in  her  name"  (here  he  bowed  reverently  to 
the  baleful  image).  "And  now,"  he  added,  holding  at 
arm's -length  his  own  flask  of  calvados,  "let  us  give  all 
together  the  war-cry  of  'Our  Lady'!" 

Very  fortunately  for  his  neck,  Pierrek  had  just  taken  a 
new  hold  upon  the  loop-hole's  edge,  else  the  sudden 
thunder  of  a  thousand  deep-throated  voices  echoing  and 
re-echoing  beneath  the  towering  vault  of  the  Gooc'h  Varc 
'hadvurez  (the  smuggler's  cave),  and  beating  like  a  crash 
of  heavy  artillery  against  his  place  of  concealment,  would 
undoubtedly  have  precipitated  him,  if  only  from  sheer 
fright,  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  shaft. 

"Death  to  the  Douaniers,"1  they  roared  again  and 
again,  punctuating  their  cries  with  copious  draughts  of 
"fire-wine,"  which  went  far  towards  bringing  the  general 
enthusiasm  to  an  extremely  dangerous  point.  Soon  the 
uproar  became  prolonged  and  continuous,  for  half  a 
dozen  bagpipes  began  to  shrill  forth,  and  all  at  once,  as 
though  obeying  a  prearranged  signal,  every  man  pres 
ent  tore  the  now  drooping  sprigs  of  foxglove  from  the 
ragged  smock  covering  his  ordinary  clothes,  and  flung 
them  violently  before  the  goddess,  until  they  rose  high 
about  her  pedestal  in  a  tide  of  pink  and  purple  flecked 
with  palest-green. 

Once  more  the  defiant  words  of  the  "Vespers  of  Cor- 
nouailles"  were  intoned,  but  Pierrek  could  stand  it  no 
longer.  Bruised  and  terrified,  shivering  from  head  to  foot 
as  though  suffering  from  a  violent  ague,  he  fell  rather  than 
scrambled  down,  damaging  his  person  still  further  in  his 
abrupt  descent.  He  was  so  shaken  when  he  reached  the 
bottom  that  he  lay  panting  and  but  half  -  conscious  on 

1  Customs  officials. 
63 


GRAY    MIST 

the  rock  floor  of  the  shelving  corridor  he  had  quitted  a 
little  less  than  an  hour  before. 

With  a  shudder  that  rattled  every  tooth  in  his  head, 
he  opened  his  eyes  again,  and  slowly,  awkwardly,  like  a 
poor  little  wounded  animal,  he  made  his  way  back  again, 
crawling  on  all  fours  at  a  snail's-pace.  Once  again  Master 
Pierrek's  curiosity  had  led  him  into  trouble,  nor  had  he 
yet  come  to  the  end  of  it,  for  as  he  painfully  dragged  his 
sore  limbs  out  of  the  tunnel  he  found  himself  in  the  midst 
of  what  might  be  described  as  a  veritable  hornets'  nest  of 
his  own  creating. 

Awakened  from  their  heavy  slumbers  by  the  baccha 
nalian  yells  of  the  tuerien,  which  towards  the  last,  such  was 
the  uproar,  ended  by  reaching  the  sleepers  even  through 
those  many  intervening  yards  of  granite,  they  at  once 
realized  what  was  going  on  in  the  heart  of  the  "Sacrificial 
Stones,"  and  also  what  an  unfortunate  moment  they  had 
selected  for  their  visit  to  the  smugglers'  sacred  domain. 
They  did  not  joke,  "those  parishioners,"  as  every  one  of 
the  little  party  was  well  aware.  Once  a  wretched  coast 
guard,  who,  burning  with  a  desire  for  rapid  advancement, 
had  spied  upon  them  and  managed  to  surprise  one  of 
their  "religious"  ceremonies,  was,  as  every  one  knew? 
advanced  into  a  better  world  by  the  simple  but  effective 
process  of  being  literally  pulled  into  tassels,  and  finally 
cast  from  the  top  of  Mean-Azen-lidigez  onto  the  jagged 
bowlders  below.  There  the  dismembered  fragments  of 
his  carcass  were  found  after  a  while  by  a  crew  of  horrified 
sardine-fishers,  but  the  criminals — quality  and  quantity 
unknown — could  never  be  brought  to  book,  and  the  inci 
dent  was  closed,  though  not  forgotten.  This  is  one  of 
the  reasons  why  when  Herve  caught  sight  of  his  young 
hopeful  crawling  out  of  the  ring  of  darkness  framing  the 
flat  stone  whereon  the  lantern  had  been  placed,  he  seized 

64 


GRAY    MIST 

him  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck  with  no  tender  hand.  In 
deed,  Herve,  gentle  as  most  very  tall  men  are,  could  show 
severity  of  a  very  convincing  kind  when  occasion  demanded. 

"Where  have  you  been,  you  Gwasoc'h?"1  he  said, 
angrily.  Then  noticing  the  white  face  and  trembling 
lips  of  the  boy,  who  as  a  rule  was  by  no  means  easily 
upset,  he  drew  him  more  softly  forward,  and  with  no 
more  than  a  reasonable  sternness,  elicited  from  him  a 
full  and  unreserved  confession.  The  men  listened  open- 
mouthed,  while  Herve's  face,  already  alarmingly  grave, 
darkened  perceptibly. 

"We  must  get  out  of  this,  whatever  the  cost,  and  at 
once!"  he  pronounced,  turning  to  his  second.  "We  can 
not  risk  its  ever  becoming  known  that  the  Ster£den  was 
here  to-night." 

"But,  Patron,'"  the  man  objected,  casting  a  quick  glance 
at  the  flying  scud  eddying  past  the  entrance  to  the  cave, 
"we  can  never  get  out  in  this  dog  of  a  weather.  Besides, 
who's  to  see  the  chaloupe?  Don't  you  remember  that 
they"  —  he  designated  the  smugglers  by  an  expressive 
raising  of  the  shoulders — "don't  come  here  in  boats,  but 
walk  from  An  Daouzec-Deiziou  2  through  the  passage  of 
the  Drouized.3  That's  where  their  boats  are  left,  and 
they  could  never  see  us." 

Herv6  had  given  unmistakable  signs  of  impatience 
while  listening  to  this  demurrer,  and,  scarcely  allowing  it 
to  come  to  an  end,  exclaimed,  wrathfully: 

1  Worst  of  all. 

2  The  Four  Weathers.     Name  of  another  group  of  rocks  nearer 
to  the  mainland,  which  is  so  called  because  on  each  of  its  sides  a 
different  sort  of  wind  is  to  be  encountered. 

3  The  passage  alluded  to  exists,   and  connects  the  two  rock 
islands,  both  deserted.     It  is  supposed  to  be  the  work  of  the 
ancient  Druids,  who  used  the  said  islands  for  particularly  secret 
rites. 

65 


GRAY    MIST 

"You  talk  like  an  innocent,  Nedelek  Houarn,  and 
what's  more,  as  you  may  be  aware,  I  am  net  overfond 
of  having  my  orders  discussed!  'Bout  face,  and  let's 
march!" 

The  greenish  light  of  a  storm-rent  dawn  was  stealing 
sulkily  beneath  a  frowning  bank  of  drifting  clouds  as  the 
Stereden-Ab-Vorat  last  made  out  the  distant  double  peaks 
of  Kermario.  What  the  past  night  had  been  for  those 
aboard,  tossed  ceaselessly  upon  a  hissing,  maddened  sea, 
that  threw  itself  bodily  upward  to  meet  the  lashes  of  a 
driving  rain,  tasting  of  brine,  and  smartful  to  the  skin, 
it  is  superfluous  to  dwell  upon.  Dripping  from  head  to 
foot  beneath  their  soaked  cirages,  the  crew  felt  exhausted 
as  they  had  scarcely  ever  been  in  their  life  of  peril  and 
stress,  but  Herve,  crouching  low  over  the  helm,  was  as 
alert  as  ever,  as  clear-sighted  and  resourceful,  and  filled 
beside  with  a  pride  greater  than  he  could  well  have  ex 
pressed,  for  at  his  side,  game  to  the  end,  spite  of  fatigue 
and  bruises,  extraordinary  experiences,  wind,  waves,  hun 
ger  and  thirst,  clung  Pierrek.  Each  lurch  of  the  chaloupe 
threw  him  forward,  so  that  he  was  obliged  to  brace 
heavily  at  times  against  his  father's  knee,  but  this  neither 
of  them  heeded.  The  child's  gray  eyes — as  dark  gray  as 
the  somberest  cloud  scudding  overhead — were  half  closed 
with  utter  weariness,  and  the  handsome  little  face  was 
pale;  but,  played  out  or  not,  he  had  throughout  remained 
in  what  is  called  on  the  Breton  coast  a  perfect  sailor's 
temper.  He  had  the  true  feu-sacre  that  mr.kes  good 
mariners  and  better  fishermen.  With  characteristic  mute 
ness  he  had  endured  almost  as  much  as  the  men  them 
selves,  for  if  he  did  not  work  as  they  did,  they  had  expe 
rience  behind  them,  and  had  not  gone  through  his  rough 
adventure  in  the  cave.  According  to  the  code  and  laws 
of  the  Pecheurs  de  Bretagne  he  had  acquitted  himself 

66 


GRAY    MIST 

more  than  well,  and  Herve  smiled  contentedly  through 
the  stinging  layer  of  salt  that  stiffened  on  his  tanned 
face.  He  was  well  pleased  with  his  mousse,  was  Hervd 
Rouzik,  and  to  tell  the  truth  he  was  not  a  Patron  par 
ticularly  easy  to  satisfy. 


CHAPTER  V 

In  faith  and  manly  steadfastness 

He  wrought  through  peril  and  through  stress 

Withouten  murmuring; 
And  since  he  put  his  strength  in  thrall 
Selfless,  to  serve  the  need  of  all, 

He  found  himself  a  King. 

M.  M. 

PIERREK  from  that  day  on  seemed  to  leave  childhood 
behind  him  almost  completely.  In  the  midst  of  the  busy 
fishing  season — part  and  parcel  of  it  himself  now — he 
was  in  his  element.  Strong  and  ambitious,  he  was  never 
quite  satisfied  with  what  he  accomplished,  and  that  is 
always  a  good  sign.  He  could  already  count  and  basket 
sardines  with  the  swift,  practised  touch  of  one  born  to 
the  business,  but  he  had  heart-of-oak  qualities  that  im 
pelled  him  ever  forward,  and  urged  him  to  learn  his 
metier  to  the  finest  minutiae,  pestering  the  crew  with 
questions  about  every  morsel  of  rope,  every  bolt  or  hook 
they  handled.  His  agile  figure  balanced  on  the  farthest 
end  of  the  bowsprit,  his  bonny  face  set  against  the  wind, 
and  his  shrill,  soft  whistle,  cutting  the  evening  air  like  an 
arrow,  struck  the  key-note  of  the  home-coming  of  the 
heavily  laden  Stereden-Ab-Vor,  and  he  looked  so  typically 
a  mousse,  with  the  healthful  tan  gilding  his  rounded 
cheeks,  his  eyes  darkening  with  pride  at  the  magnitude 
of  the  day's  catch,  and  his  bright  hair  sparkling  in  the 
sunset  light,  that  Lanaik,  who  always  stood  on  the  ex 
tremity  of  the  breakwater  to  await  him,  would  not  now 

68 


GRAY    MIST 

have  had  him  be  anything  else.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
whatever  her  opposition  might  have  been,  he  would  still 
have  belonged  to  the  sea,  and  with  simple  Breton  resigna 
tion  to  the  inevitable  she  accepted  things  as  they  were 
for  the  present.  When,  however,  the  future  crossed  her 
mind  there  appeared  a  far-away  look  of  dreamy  wistful- 
ness,  of  faintly  latent  fear  in  those  wonderful  blue  eyes 
of  hers,  since  the  years  would  unfailingly  bring  to  Pierrek 
the  hazards  of  conscription,  and,  besides  this,  she  well 
knew  that  the  dreaded  excursions  of  the  cod-fishers  to  the 
cold  seas  had  already  begun  to  tempt  him.  Indeed,  as 
time  wore  on,  she  began  to  picture  to  herself  more  and 
more  vividly  the  thousand  and  one  dangers  which  he 
would  encounter  should  Herve  allow  him  after  all  to  join 
the  Icelandic  fishing-fleet.  Sailors,  and  deep-sea  sailors 
at  that,  the  Rouziks  always  had  been,  from  generation 
to  generation,  but  her  own  people  were  salt-workers  and 
land-owners  in  a  small  way.  Hence  her  lack  of  enthusi 
asm  for  the  sea,  and  a  habit  of  "counting  the  cost "  which 
she  had  inherited  with  other  characteristics  from  a  less 
adventurous  ancestry. 

She  was  no  coward;  far  from  it.  Few  Bretons  are; 
their  lives  from  the  cradle  up  being  too  full  of  hardships 
to  leave  much  room  for  the  fear  of  death,  but  her  tender 
heart  and  passionate  love  for  her  husband  and  child  were 
apt  to  play  her  tricks,  and  against  this  not  even  a  deep 
strength  of  principle  and  devotion  to  duty  could  guard  her. 

And  now  all  the  courage  she  possessed  was  to  be  called 
into  action.  At  the  end  of  one  of  the  finest  autumns  the 
land  had  ever  known  a  violent  epidemic  of  cholera  settled 
heavily  upon  Kermarioker,  like  a  vulture  upon  a  helpless 
prey,  to  gorge  and  gorge  until  it  seemed  at  one  time  as  if 
only  a  skeleton  of  the  country-side  population  would  be 
left. 


GRAY    MIST 

Medical  aid  was  scarcely  procurable,  for  the  one  doctor 
in  charge  of  the  district  lived  many  miles  away,  and 
sorely  indeed  would  Kermarioker  have  fared  had  it  not 
been  for  its  energetic  Cure.  From  the  first  minute  when 
the  scourge  appeared  M.  Kornog  took  hold — as  sailors 
say — and  governed  the  sick  and  the  well  alike,  as  no 
other  could  have  done — almost  literally  with  a  rod  of 
iron!  The  situation  demanded  much  more  than  spiritual 
consolation  and  careful  nursing,  so  the  Abbe  simply  aug 
mented  his  usual  functions  by  those  of  King,  Prophet, 
Physician,  and  many  lesser  offices  as  well,  but  especially 
Sanitary  Inspector.  No  less  powers  were  needed  if  he 
was  to  grapple  successfully  with  this  dread  disease,  that 
from  time  to  time  sweeps  the  Breton  and  Vendeen 
coasts. 

From  cottage  to  cottage  he  went  night  and  day,  un 
tiringly;  in  turn  berating,  encouraging,  and  sympathiz 
ing  with  his  patients ;  preaching,  and  enforcing  with  the 
hand  of  absolute  power,  the  gospel  of  fresh  air  and  com 
mon-sense  precaution.  He  himself  apparently  bore  a 
charmed  life,  for  no  harm  came  to  him  from  crushing 
fatigue,  lack  of  sleep,  continual  exposure,  and  that  worst 
of  all  evils,  the  sense  of  a  responsibility  too  great  for  one 
miserable  human  being  to  carry  alone. 

Late  one  October  night  he  returned  home  after  sixteen 
consecutive  hours  among  the  sick  and  dying,  and  utterly 
wearied,  both  in  mind  and  body,  sat  down — literally  for 
the  first  time  that  day — beside  the  almost  extinguished 
fire  of  his  study.  It  was  drizzling  outside,  and  a  sour 
little  wind  whimpered  fretfully  around  the  house,  blow 
ing  spasmodically  through  the  open  window  the  pungent 
odor  of  sea-weed  and  wet  shingle.  At  the  foot  of  the 
crags  the  stricken  village  was  wrapped  in  the  fevered 
torpor  of  disease,  and  the  Cure  sighed  heavily  as  he 

70 


GRAY    MIST 

thought  of  the  misery  and  suffering  he  had  witnessed 
since  sunrise. 

Hardly  had  he  stretched  his  tired  legs,  before  the  door 
opened,  and  his  old  housekeeper,  wrinkled  and  brown 
like  the  proverbial  fruit  of  that  prettily  pink  flowering 
bush,  the  medlar,  and  wearing  the  snowiest  of  coiffes 
and  the  most  immaculate  of  kerchiefs  and  aprons, 
brusquely  entered  the  room.  For  a  moment  she  gazed 
furiously  at  her  master,  with  a  pair  of  very  blue  eyes 
that  looked  incongruously  young  in  so  grandmotherly  a 
countenance,  then  placing  her  arms  akimbo,  she  pro 
ceeded  to  address  him  in  a  manner  that  would  have 
made  him  laugh,  had  such  a  thing  as  a  laugh  been  left  in 
him. 

"And  will  you  tell  me  in  the  name  of  all  the  blessed 
saints  of  Cornouailles  how  much  longer  you're  going  to 
lead  this  shameful  life,  Monsieur  le  Recteur?"  she  cried, 
in  a  high-pitched  voice,  trembling  with  uncontrollable 
anger.  "Is  there  any  reason,"  she  continued,  without 
giving  him  time  to  answer  this  apostrophe,  even  had  he 
desired  to  do  so,  "in  your  gallivanting  in  the  way  you 
do?  Just  look  at  the  state  you're  in.  My  word,  but 
you  don't  look  like  a  Christian,  let  alone  a  holy  Priest  of 
God!" 

M.  Kornog  sat  up  and  looked  at  his  muddy  shoes  with 
extreme  surprise,  then  slowly  his  eyes  travelled  to  the 
moisture  dripping  from  his  black  soutane,  which,  utterly 
unnoticed  by  him,  had  during  his  recent  "  gallivantings " 
acquired  a  most  regrettable  inclination  to  cling  about  his 
weary  limbs  with  soppy  persistence. 

"Well,  my  good  Mari-Gwezek,  I  am  sorry,"  he  said, 
humbly.  "I  did  not  know  I  had  gotten  myself  in  such  a 
mess,  and  I  only  trust  I  have  not  spoiled  your  nice  clean 
floor." 


GRAY    MIST 

A  scornful  cackle  interrupted  him  rudely.  "And  who 
cares  for  the  floor?"  Dame  Gwezek  acidly  retorted. 
"One  will  clean  it  up  to-morrow  morning  and  be  none 
the  worse.  But  what  about  you  risking  your  hide  as 
you're  doing  now  by  sitting  down  in  a  puddle  ?  Go  up 
stairs  at  once,  Monsieur  le  Recteur,  and  get  into  your 
bed.  I'll  bring  you  your  soup  there,  and  if  you  don't 
swallow  it  down  while  it's  hot  you'll  hear  from  me!" 

A  twinkle  of  humor  flashed  in  the  Cure's  tired  eyes. 
The  faithful  old  servant's  dragoonings  were  just  the  sort 
of  tonic  he  needed,  and  there  is  no  knowing  whether  he 
would  not  have  acted  upon  her  exceedingly  sound  ad 
vice  had  he  not  at  that  instant  been  arrested  in  the  very 
act  of  getting  out  of  his  chair  by  a  loud  knock  at  the 
outer  door. 

"Name  of  a  dog!"  shrieked  Mari-Gwezek,  whose  lan 
guage  when  thoroughly  aroused  was  by  no  means  parlia 
mentary.  "Are  they  after  you  again,  the  brute  beasts. 
.  .  .  But  wait  a  minute  .  .  .  just  wait  a  minute,"  and  she 
was  rushing  towards  the  entrance  -  hall,  when,  with  a 
couple  of  long-legged  strides,  her  master  passed  her  and 
himself  admitted  a  slender  figure  clad  in  oil-skins,  from 
which  the  water  dripped  in  little  rills. 

"Pierrek!"  the  Curd  cried,  in  alarm.  "Surely  there  is 
no  one  sick  at  your  house." 

Breathless  from  his  run  up-hill,  Pierrek  waited  a  second 
before  answering,  and  his  voice  trembled  sorely  as  he  did 
so.  "It  is  my  father,  Monsieur  le  Recteur,  and  he  wants 
you,"  was  all  he  said,  but  the  way  in  which  it  was  said 
contained  volumes. 

Even  Mari-Gwezek,  who  had  joined  the  others  beneath 
the  flickering  hall  lamp,  remained  for  once  in  her  life 
speechless;  but  as  the  Cure,  with  a  smothered  exclama 
tion  of  grief,  snatched  hat  and  umbrella  from  a  neighbor- 

72 


GRAY    MIST 

ing  rack,  she  whirled  upon  Pierrek,  her  whole  face  alight 
with  excitement. 

"You  are  lucky,  my  lad,  that  it's  your  father  who's 
got  the  plague  to-night,"  she  shrieked,  as  though  talking 
to  a  deaf  man,  "for  if  it  had  been  any  one  else  I  wouldn't 
have  let  Monsieur  le  Recteur  go  out  again!"  With  which 
consolatory  remark  she  abruptly  turned  her  back  upon 
the  unwelcome  visitor,  and  disappeared,  still  loudly  vituper 
ating,  within  the  sacred  precincts  of  kitchen  and  still  room. 

The  night  had  darkened  still  more  as  the  Cure  and  his 
young  companion  left  the  house,  but  their  practised  feet 
followed  without  much  difficulty  the  quiet,  moss-grown 
path  crossing  the  adjoining  cemetery.  There  was  a  chill 
and  bitter  feeling  in  the  atmosphere  which  made  them 
both  shudder,  and  as  they  walked  past  the  little  shrine 
of  St.  Herve  de  Kermario,  cut  deep  into  a  huge  block  of 
stone,  before  which  a  bright  little  lantern  burns  night 
and  day,  M.  Kornog  was  struck  by  the  hard  face  and 
stony  eyes  of  his  protege. 

"How  old  are  you  now,  Pierrek?"  he  asked,  with  ap 
parent  irrelevance,  as  he  followed  the  boy  over  the  low 
wall  of  the  burying-ground. 

"Nearly  sixteen,  Monsieur  le  Recteur,  and  that's  not 
enough  for  me  to  take  his  place  yet." 

Surprised  at  the  quick  reading  of  his  thoughts,  and 
yet  more  so  at  the  curtness  of  the  tone,  the  Cure  walked 
about  a  hundred  yards  farther  before  speaking  again. 
Then,  without  looking  at  the  lad,  but  seemingly  entirely 
absorbed  by  the  difficult  task  of  picking  his  way  from 
stepping-stone  to  stepping-stone  down  the  incommodious 
short-cut  they  had  elected  to  take,  he  said,  in  a  slow, 
kindly  voice: 

"What  is  amiss  with  you,  Moussaillon,  besides  the  very 
natural  anxiety  caused  by  your  father's  illness?" 

73 


GRAY    MIST 

Pierrek  stopped  so  short  that  the  priest  almost  came 
into  violent  collision  with  him,  and  there  in  the  pitchy 
darkness  of  midnight,  unable  to  distinguish  each  other's 
features,  though  scarcely  a  foot  apart,  they  paused. 

"The  Patron  will  die!"  came  the  cutting  voice  of  Pier 
rek,  speaking  as  though  of  a  total  stranger.  "He  will  die, 
because  a  while  ago  I  saw  Lestr  ar  Vossen!"  l 

The  Abbe  Kornog  involuntarily  recoiled.  "What  non 
sense  is  this,  Pierrek?"  he  said,  angrily,  more  on  account 
of  his  own  unguarded  movement  of  fear  than  at  the  boy's 
words.  "You,  a  bright,  educated  gars,  to  believe  in  that 
legend?" 

"And  so  would  you,  Monsieur  le  Recteur,  if  you'd  seen 
it,  with  its  coal-black  sails  and  empty  decks,  pitching  and 
tossing  beyond  the  islands!  And  as  I  was  looking  at  it, 
hardly  believing  what  I  saw,  I'll  risk  my  share  of  Para 
dise  if  I  did  not  see  as  clear  as  day  a  white  shape,  all 
swaddled  in  thin  stuffs  that  floated  in  every  direction, 
rise  like  smoke  from  behind  the  main-sail,  and  spread  and 
spread  into  a  great  cloud  of  mist  towards  our  house. 
Yes — yes — you  can  say  what  you  like,  Monsieur  le  Rec 
teur,  not  to  disrespect  you,  but  it  was  the  plague  Virgin, 
the  boneless,  fleshless,  heartless  virgin  that  poisons  the 
land  and  even  the  sea  with  her  dead  breath!" 

Slowly  and  thoughtfully  the  Cure  raised  his  hand,  and 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross  in  the  air. 

Veni  Creator  .  .  .  accende  lumen  sensibus,  infunde 
amor  em  cordibus  .  .  .  -infirma  no  sir  i  corporis,  virtute 
firmans  perpeti,"*  he  murmured  to  himself,  solemnly, 

1  The  pest  ship:  a  phantom  vessel  that  heralds  the  approach  of 
cholera. 

2  Come,  Holy  Ghost,  guide  our  minds  with  Thy  blessed  light, 
inflame  our  hearts  with  love,  and  fortify  our  weak  flesh  by  a 
virtue  that  naught  can  shake. 

74 


GRAY    MIST 

while  Pierrek  bowed  his  head  to  the  church's  Latin,  but 
without  the  least  confidence  in  what  he  vaguely  under 
stood  to  be  some  form  of  exorcism. 

After  peering  at  the  wellnigh  indistinguishable  face  of 
the  lad  for  some  seconds  the  priest  started,  as  if  sud 
denly  recovering  himself,  and  then  in  his  usual  quick, 
unhesitating  way,  set  off  again  at  redoubled  speed  with 
out  uttering  another  word.  They  were  now  close  to  the 
village,  and  ahead  of  them  there  suddenly  burst  through 
the  gloom  the  dazzling  emerald-green  rays  of  the  revolv 
ing  light  of  Ar  C  'hentrou.1  By  the  aid  of  its  waxing  and 
waning  gleam  they  cleared  the  wall  of  Lanaik's  flower- 
garden,  and  then,  as  though  simultaneously  turned  to 
stone,  they  stood  planted  side  by  side  in  the  very  midst 
of  her  favorite  flower-bed,  gazing  wide-eyed  at  a  tiny 
globe  of  exquisitely  brilliant  blue  light — just  the  exact 
tint  of  a  blossoming  hortensia,  flitting  up  and  down  in 
the  strangest  will-o'-the-wisp  fashion  immediately  above 
Herve  Rouzik's  chimney.2 

"My  father's  soul!  My  father's  soul!"  moaned  Pierrek, 
in  a  choking,  agonized  voice,  utterly  unlike  his  own,  and 
with  that  fell  flat  upon  his  face  at  the  Cure's  feet. 

In  the  cottage  Herve  had  been  laid  at  full  length,  still 
half  dressed,  upon  the  heavy  eating-table  that  had  been 
dragged  beneath  the  open  window,  as  is  the  custom  in 
Finisterre  when  the  chief  of  the  family  is  about  to  die. 
His  eyes  were  closed,  his  powerful  hands  were  clinched  at 
his  sides,  and  through  his  blue  lips  came  the  labored  breath 
in  slow  gasps,  but  still  he  was  not  sleeping,  for  in  a  little 
while  he  began  to  breathe  less  heavily,  and  murmured: 

1  The  Spurs :  name  of  the  double  rock  point  whereon  the  light 
house  is  built. 

2  This  phenomenon  has  been  observed  by  credible  persons. 
6  75 


GRAY    MIST 

"Lanedk-gez.1  Where  is  Pierrek?  I'm  at  the  end  of 
my  quid,  little  one  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  I'd  have  wished  to  see 
Monsieur  le  Recteur.  ..." 

Lanaik,  kneeling  on  the  floor  beside  him,  her  face  al 
most  as  ghastly  as  his  own,  choked  in  her  attempt  to  re 
ply.  It  was  so  terrible  to  see  this  man,  young  and 
strong,  whom  she  adored,  falling  thus  by  the  way  with 
scarcely  a  second's  warning.  Feebly  he  made  a  hesitat 
ing  attempt  to  put  his  hand  upon  her  bowed  head — 
Bretons  are  not  caressing  in  their  ways,  and  this  gesture 
was  alone  sufficient  to  prove  to  her  how  clearly  he  felt 
himself  doomed.  "Pierrek  is  too  young  .  .  .  too  young 
to  take  .  .  .  my  place,"  he  gasped.  "But  Nedelek  is  a 
good  man  ...  he  will  look  after  him  .  .  .  and  the  Stereden 
.  .  .  she's  not  quite  new  .  .  .  the  Stereden  .  .  .  but  she's  all 
right  .  .  .  not  a  spar  .  .  .  nor  a  rope's  missing  .  .  .  the 
nets,  too.  ..." 

"Oh,  Hoarve,2  don't!"  she  interrupted,  unable  to  bear 
any  more,  and  then  between  the  long,  deep  sobs  that 
shook  her  from  head  to  foot:  "N'han'  Dou6!  N'han' 
Doue!  Don't  tell  me  all  this.  What  do  I  care  what 
happens  if  you  leave  me?" 

A  look  of  extraordinary  pain  and  anxiety  crossed  the 
man's  already  convulsed  features,  and  he  tried  to  raise 
himself  on  his  elbow.  At  that  moment  the  door  opened 
with  a  creaking  sound,  and  the  Recteur,  somewhat  pale 
but  ready  and  composed,  entered,  followed  by  the  feebly- 
groping,  bent  figure  of  Pierrek.  A  gleam  of  satisfaction 
lighted  up  for  a  second  Herve's  fast-glazing  eyes,  as  his 
life-long  friend  bent  over  him.  No  thought  of  possible 
infection  seemed  to  enter  the  Cure's  head,  for  he  re 
mained  there  inhaling  directly  the  breath  of  those  pant- 

1  Beloved. 

2  True  Breton  form  of  the  name  commonly  written  "Herve." 

76 


GRAY    MIST 

ing  lips,  while  he  felt  for  the  fluttering  pulse.  Pierrek 
and  Lanaik  stood  behind  him,  with  hands  clasped  in 
agony,  waiting  for  the  verdict. 

The  earth-floored  room  was  lighted  only  by  the  dim 
rose-glow  of  the  ever-present  turf  fire  and  the  faint 
orange  gleam  of  a  couple  of  resin  candles,  flickering  in 
the  draught  of  the  open  window  and  widely-yawning 
hearth.  Outside  the  long  Atlantic  roll  was  swinging 
slowly,  the  soft  recurrent  thunder  of  the  surge  upon  the 
rocks  below  filling  the  little  house  with  that  great  voice 
that  is  of  Time,  yet  speaks  of  Eternity. 

"You  must  rouse  yourself,  Herve!"  the  Cure  was  say 
ing.  "Cholera  is  not  cured  by  lying  down,  my  com 
rade!"  and  slipping  one  arm  under  the  dying  man's 
shoulders  he  tried  to  raise  him  to  a  sitting  posture. 

"Don't  bother  yourself,  Monsieur  le  Recteur;  I'm  past 
that  now,  .  .  ."  the  weakened  voice  remonstrated.     "All 
you  can  do  for  me  is  to  hear  my  confession,  and  then — 
but  here  he  was  suddenly  cut  short  by  a  pang  of  pain  almost 
intolerable,  and  the  grip  of  his  hand  tightened  in  the  priest's. 

He  was  very  learned  in  medicine,  was  M.  Kornog,  and 
his  nursing  was  a  thing  past  praise,  yet  he  was  soon  con 
vinced  that  nothing  he — or  for  the  matter  of  that  any 
one  else — could  attempt  would  be  of  the  slightest  use. 
Alleviate  the  wretched  man's  sufferings  by  administering 
repeated  doses  of  laudanum  and  brandy  he  did,  but  fur 
ther  than  this  he  could  not  go,  and  at  dawn,  before  it 
was  wholly  light,  while  the  glistening  damp  of  the  van 
ishing  night  spangled  every  twig  and  leaf  and  blade  of 
grass  in  the  little  garden  below  the  window,  Herve's  rest 
lessly-tossing  head  fell  back  limply  upon  the  rough  pillow, 
and  all  was  over. 

A  soft,  white  mist  was  blanketing  sea  and  shore  as  the 
Cure  left  the  little  house  below  the  crags.  The  air  was 

77 


GRAY    MIST 

very  still  now,  and  this  quiet  was  somewhat  startling  by 
the  suddenness  of  its  advent,  for  until  an  hour  before 
that  sour,  enervating  little  wind  had  scolded  and  fretted 
ceaselessly.  In  the  village  nothing  stirred  as  yet. 

The  Cure's  heart  was  heavy  indeed.  He  had  both  loved 
and  honored  Herv^  Rouzik,  and  Lanaik's  plight  filled  him 
with  anxiety,  since,  as  he  well  knew,  she  was  not  one  of 
those  practical  business  women  who  can  take  the  heavier 
burdens  upon  their  shoulders,  but  a  tender  little  plant, 
always  sheltered  by  her  husband's  love  from  the  rougher 
experiences  of  life.  Pierrek,  too — bright,  obstinate,  im 
pulsive  Pierrek — what  would  become  of  him  now  .  .  .  was 
he  fitted  to  assume  the  difficult  position  of  chef  de  famille 
and  of  captain  of  a  fishing-boat,  even  though  this  last 
dignity  would  be  but  purely  honorary  at  present?  The 
priest's  strong  face  was  set  like  flint  as  he  considered 
these  things. 

For  so  utterly  tired  out  a  man,  the  pace  at  which  he 
breasted  the  steep  incline  leading  towards  the  presbytery 
was  but  one  more  proof  of  the  man's  iron  strength,  and 
the  sun  was  still  far  from  rising  when  he  came  abreast  of 
the  last  house  on  this  side  of  Kermarioker — an  inn,  kept 
by  a  hard-headed,  hard-fisted  man,  who  passed  for  being 
the  most  quarrelsome  individual  for  miles  around.  He 
was  at  that  very  moment  engaged  in  filling  by  the  silvery 
light  of  the  awakening  day  a  stout,  round-bellied  bottle 
with  vile  calvados  l  from  a  stone  jug,  preparatory  to 
handing  it  to  a  sickly-looking  man  who  wore  a  blouse  of 
coarse  blue  linen  over  his  fustian  clothes,  and  the  hat  of 
a  metayer, 2  very  much  on  the  right  side  of  his  unpleasant 
head.  At  sight  of  the  tall,  black-robed  figure,  this  early 
purchaser  of  strong  waters  snatched  the  bottle  with  ob- 

1  Potato  brandy.  2  Farmer. 

78 


GRAY    MIST 

vious  haste  from  mine  host's  hand,  and  attempted  to 
thrust  it  into  a  capacious  pocket,  all  uncorked  though  it 
was,  but  he  was  just  a  second  too  late,  for  in  one  stride 
Kermarioker's  vigilant  shepherd  was  at  his  side. 

"What  have  we  here?"  he  said,  with  that  peculiar 
irony  in  which  he  indulged  when  determined  to  make 
himself  as  disagreeable  as  possible,  and  which  his  flock  one 
and  all  feared  even  more  than  his  worst  angers.  "Why, 
actually  my  excellent  friend  Toulouzek  making  his  little 
provision  of  'wife-beater'  on  the  sly!" 

The  innkeeper  looked  askance  at  this  unwelcome  dis 
turber  of  traffic.  His  thick,  brutal  lips  twitched,  and  he 
was  on  the  point  of  speaking,  when  the  priest's  deep-set 
eyes  met  his,  and  he  desisted.  One  would  almost  have 
sworn  that  the  bully  of  Kermarioker  was  ill  at  ease,  and 
.  .  .  why,  yes — intimidated!  As  to  M.  Kornog's  "excel 
lent  friend,"  a  person  as  a  rule  disinclined  to  go  to  meet 
quarrels  —  probably  because  quarrels  generally  spared 
him  that  trouble — he  was  engaged  in  industriously  mop 
ping  his  singularly  sloping  forehead  with  a  by  no  means 
doubtful  bandana  handkerchief. 

"I  invite  you  to  give  that  bottle  back  to  Al  Loar!"1  the 
priest  said,  without  in  the  least  raising  his  voice.  "You 
owe  it  to  him  as  it  is — and  to  me  also  in  a  different  way, 
for  I  have  forbidden  you  to  meddle  with  spirits — at  least, 
while  the  cholera  is  here!" 

This  kind  invitation  was  not  at  once  complied  with; 
indeed,  the  Cure's  words  seemed  to  cause  real  pain  to  the 
good  Toulouzek,  who,  pale  with  excitement,  shuffled 
from  one  foot  to  the  other,  torn  between  the  fear  of  hav 
ing  to  part  with  his  cherished  bottle,  and  the  abject 
dread  he  entertained  for  his  spiritual  adviser. 

1  The  moon;  a  sobriquet  applied  to  him  on  account  of  his 
round  red  iace. 

79 


GRAY    MIST 

His  predominant  feeling  just  then,  however,  was  per 
haps  annoyance  at  being  ordered  about  like  that  before 
Al  Loar,  and  this  alone  gave  him  courage  to  hold  his 
ground.  A  silence  pregnant  with  much  thunder  reigned 
for  a  short  minute. 

"Now,  then!"  M.  Kornog  said,  at  last,  in  a  tone  in 
dicative  of  a  complete  indifference  as  to  how  his  words 
would  be  received.  "What  are  you  waiting  for  Toulou- 
zek?  Do  you  imagine  that  I  am  going  to  repeat  my 
order?"  And  as  the  man  still  hesitated  a  muscular  hand 
shot  out,  wrenched  away  the  bottle,  and  sent  it  spinning 
through  the  air  like  a  football  all  the  way  down  the  in 
cline,  to  burst  like  a  bubble  at  the  very  foot  of  the  wind 
ing  path. 

Al  Loar,  unable  to  master  his  indignation  any  longer, 
stepped  into  the  open,  his  broad,  apoplectic  face  glowing 
in  the  gray  morning  light  like  the  rising  moon  it  so  closely 
resembled,  objurgations  of  a  very  emphatic  nature  burst 
ing  from  his  coarse  mouth.  He  was  an  ugly  customer 
when  aroused,  and  even  his  inbred  Breton  respect  for  a 
soutane  was  for  the  moment  forgotten. 

"You  can't  come  and  lord  it  over  my  customers  here," 
he  cried,  squaring  a  powerful,  well-braced  frame  threat 
eningly  at  the  Cure.  "We're  not  in  the  sacristy,  and — 
But  his  sentence  was  never  finished,  for  M.  Kornog,  step 
ping  back  with  one  foot  to  obtain  a  surer  leverage,  as 
quick  as  lightning  lifted  him  from  the  ground,  swung 
him  round,  and  literally  let  him  fly  over  his  own  wall. 
The  inevitable  door-yard  heap  of  soft  manure  chanced  to 
lie  conveniently  near,  and  into  it  he  went  head-first  with 
out  a  sound. 

"That's  for  your  impudence!"  the  Cure  quietly  re 
marked,  readjusting  his  wristbands,  "and  if  you  want 
some  more — !"  he  added,  as  Al  Loar,  spluttering  and 

So 


A 


AL    LOAK   S     I. ITT  1. 1C     WAV 


GRAY    MIST 

spitting  strenuously,  rolled  himself  free  from  the  mal 
odorous  mound.  But  apparently  a  second  dose  was  not 
required,  for  no  word  came  from  the  wholly  shamed  and 
conquered  bully  .  .  .  and  as  for  Toulouzek,  all  that  could 
still  be  seen  of  him  was  a  pair  of  swiftly-escaping  legs  at  a 
friendly  gap  in  the  stake  hedge. 

"And  to  think,"  meditated  the  Cure,  resuming  his  way 
towards  home,  "and  to  think  that  no  other  form  of  argu 
ment  will  touch  men  of  that  sort !  Where  does  sacerdotal 
authority  come  in,  if  it  is  not  backed  by  strong  biceps?" 
he  continued,  sadly,  to  himself,  for  he  was  already  tor 
mented  with  remorse  at  his  own  violence.  "If  I  was  not 
so  worn  out,  anyhow,"  he  concluded,  naively,  "I  would 
not  have  been  so  quick  to  resent  their  nonsense,  for  they 
are  not  bad-hearted,  not  bad-hearted  in  the  least  ...  a 
little  mauvaise-tete ,  that  is  all!  And  really  now  that  I 
come  to  think  of  it,  I  was  a  little  too  swift  to  take  offence? 
But  the  death  of  my  poor  Herve  upset  me  more  than 
anything  I  can  recall  for  a  long  time  .  .  .  it's  a  pity,  a 
cruel  pity!"  There  the  Cure's  soliloquy  came  to  an  end, 
for  the  door  of  his  "peaceful"  little  home  was  opening 
before  him,  and  Dame  Mari-Gwezek  on  the  threshold 
stood  ready  to  vituperate  anew,  if  he  could  judge  by  the 
extreme  concentration  of  her  thousand  and  one  wrinkles. 


CHAPTER  VI 

Yon  water-marks  that  writhe  and  twist 
In  broken  bands  of  amethyst 

Or  sidelong  shift  and  spread, 
Trace  even  to  the  harbor-wall 
A  deep  full  current  that  men  call 

The  Highway  of  the  Dead. 

In  with  the  flood  its  noiseless  sweep 
Draws  half  the  pulses  of  the  deep 

To  one  resistless  force. 
Needs  must  the  race  be  strong  and  swift, 
The  silent  riders  of  the  drift 

Will  brook  no  calmer  course. 

Eyeless  and  faceless,  wound  in  weed, 
(Oh,  messengers  of  grief,  indeed!) 

They  seek  the  homeward  strand, 
Turning — ah!  turning,  ghastly  slow! 
Here  gleams  a  brow,  and  there  doth  show 

A  blue  and  deathly  hand! 

But  grimmer  is  the  sight  at  noon 

Of  night,  beneath  the  blood-red  moon 

When  from  a  distant  loss, 
Gray  ghosts  upon  the  sliding  foam 
Come  praying  peaceful  rest  and  home 

Beneath  the  Buried  Cross. 

M.  M. 

LANAIK  mechanically  pushed  the  earthenware  pan  in 
which  she  was  boiling  potatoes  for  dinner  nearer  to  the 
smouldering  turf,  and  sat  contemplating  it  with  tear- 
filled  eyes.  Potatoes!  Was  that  a  dinner  to  put  before 
Pierrek,  when,  tired  and  hungry,  he  would  come  running 

82 


GRAY    MIST 

home  from  the  harbor,  where  he  was  at  work  painting 
and  repairing  the  Stereden  in  view  of  the  coming  sardine 
season.  What  must  Herve  think  of  her  if,  as  she  firmly 
believed,  he  was  even  now  close  by  her  side?  Involun 
tarily  she  said,  half  aloud,  in  the  monotonous  voice  of  one 
but  scarcely  awake: 

"It  isn't  my  fault,  Hoarve-Karantez !"  x  (It  sounded 
like  a  remark  made  for  the  purpose  of  filling  up  an  un 
bearable  silence.)  "It  isn't  my  fault!  You  cannot  im 
agine  how  difficult  everything  is  now!"  In  her  own 
peculiar,  dreamy  way  she  reached  for  the  salt,  threw  a 
few  pinches  over  the  bubbling  potatoes,  and  sat  back 
wearily  on  her  low  chair  beneath  the  broad  hearth- 
mantel,  seeming,  what  with  the  listlessness  of  her  pose 
and  the  clear  pallor  of  her  face,  scarcely  to  belong  to  real 
life.  "Pierrek  does  what  he  can,"  she  continued,  plain 
tively,  but  at  sixteen  how  is  a  poor  paotr  2  to  know. 
The  fishing,  too,  was  bad  this  winter,  H  carve*,  and  they 
say  that  sardines  will  be  few.  ..."  She  stopped  with  a 
little  sob,  raised  her  hand  to  her  snowy  coiffe,  as  if  recol 
lecting  something,  and  sat  looking  sideways  at  a  warm 
ray  of  sunshine  dancing  gayly  in  at  the  half-open  window 
through  a  veil  of  budding  white  roses  and  tender  green 
spring  leafage.  Noon  was  approaching,  and  she  felt  that 
she  should  be  busy  with  other  preparations  for  Pierrek's 
return,  but  she  did  not  seem  to  like  the  task  to-day,  and 
it  was  only  after  a  painful  hesitation  that  she  at  last  left 
her  dark,  cosey  corner  and  crossed  over  to  the  dresser  in 
search  of  plates  and  glasses.  After  a  little  she  turned 
from  the  table,  walked  towards  the  door,  and  stood  just 
within  it,  gazing  out  upon  the  pebbly  lane  where  until 
last  autumn  she  had  always  watched  for  her  Herve. 

1  Herve-my-well-beloved.  2  Lad. 

83 


GRAY    MIST 

Pierrek  himself  was  just  then  hurrying  up  the  wide 
village  street,  along  one  side  of  which  a  crowd  of  fishing- 
boats  were  moored,  lazily  bumping  with  the  slowly  rising 
tide  against  the  low  granite  quay. 

The  boy  had  grown  almost  beyond  recognition ;  indeed, 
his  height  and  splendid  bearing  made  him  a  most  strik 
ing  figure.  He  was  not  quite  seventeen  yet,  but  still  a 
singular  power  and  self-reliance  were  expressed  in  all  his 
actions,  owing,  doubtless,  to  the  possession  of  that  supe 
rior  nerve  which  had  stood  him  in  such  good  stead  at 
different  epochs  of  his  young  life. 

It  was  already  after  mid-day,  for  which  fact  M.  Kor- 
nog's  big  church  clock  loudly  gave  its  word  by  striking  a 
quarter  past,  far  up  in  the  silvery  haze  hanging  to  the 
cliff's  lip,  and  therefore  it  was  at  a  run  that  the  lad 
turned  up  his  own  lane. 

As  he  approached  the  little  cottage  he  saw  his  mother 
leaning  languidly  against  the  gray  door-lintel,  and,  still 
increasing  his  pace,  came  upon  her  before  she  had  time  to 
dry  the  tears  hanging  to  her  golden  eyelashes. 

"You  mustn't  do  that!"  he  said,  bluntly,  putting  one 
brown  hand  on  her  slender,  black-draped  shoulder,  and 
for  a  second  there  shone  in  the  clear  velvet  of  his  eyes  a 
glowing  depth  of  tenderness  that  made  her  heart  leap 
within  her  breast,  but  she  said  nothing,  and  walked  past 
him  into  the  house. 

"You  know,"  she  murmured  at  last,  when  the  lad  had 
taken  his  seat  at  the  table,  and  according  to  Breton  cus 
tom  she  had  carried  her  porringer  half  full  of  steam 
ing  potatoes  and  fresh  milk  to  the  hearth-  step,  where 
she  sat  toying  with  her  wooden  spoon,  "you  know, 
my  son,  that  there  is  hardly  any  money  left  in  the 
bahut." 

"What  matter!     What  matter!"  Pierrek  said,  indiffer- 

84 


GRAY    MIST 

ently,  between  mouthfuls,  "I  will  earn  some  more  .  .  . 
that's  simple!" 

"Very,"  acquiesced  Lanaik;  "it  is  only  when  you  find 
you  can't  earn  much  more  that  things  will  get  compli 
cated." 

Pierrek  laughed.  "You  are  a  very  unkind  mother, 
and  a  great  unbeliever,"  he  remarked,  cutting  jiimself  a 
huge  slice  of  hard  bread  from  the  brown  loaf  at  his  elbow, 
and  cheerfully  cracking  it  between  his  splended  white 
teeth. 

Lanaik  did  not  answer.  She  was  thinking  of  the  diffi 
cult  times  ahead  should  the  sardines  really  fail  this  sum 
mer,  and  a  great  wave  of  apprehension  flooded  her  heart. 
She  shook  her  dainty  head  forebodingly  as  she  rose  to 
clear  away  the  table,  for  she  was  in  a  singularly  pessi 
mistic  mood,  and  lacked  the  stamina  necessary  to  react 
against  her  ever-increasing  yearning  for  her  dead  hus 
band. 

"Is  there  no  news  of  the  Gwellan-Mignon  ?"  she  asked, 
presently,  stopping  close  to  where  Pierrek  swung  back 
ward  and  forward  on  the  hind  legs  of  his  chair  to  rest 
himself  after  eating.  The  Gwellan-Mignon  was  her 
brother-in-law's  schooner,  a  fine  new  coaster  plying  its 
trade  between  Nantes  and  the  smaller  seaports  of  Finis- 
terre,  year  in  year  out,  with  various  cargoes. 

Pierrek's  bright  face  instantly  clouded.  "No!"  he 
said,  impatiently.  "There  is  not,  Mammik,  but  don't 
worry;  Uncle  Oan  is  the  best  sailor  in  Kermarioker  .  .  . 
now,"  he  finished,  thinking  of  his  father,  and  tears  rose 
again  to  Lanaik's  eyes.  "Still,"  he  resumed,  after  an 
instant's  silence,  during  which  he  had  crossed  over  to  the 
other  side  of  the  room  and  unslung  from  the  wall  the 
model  of  a  little  sloop-of-war  he  had  himself  constructed 
with  wonderful  dexterity  during  the  long  sad  evenings  of 

85 


GRAY    MIST 

the  preceding  winter,  "still  one  can  never  know."  One 
of  the  mizzen-yards  needed  reinforcement,  and  his  clever 
fingers  had  just  begun  this  delicate  and  intricate  bit  of 
work,  when  the  half-door  was  pushed  open,  and  the  Cure 
of  Kermarioker  walked  in,  fanning  himself  with  his  wide- 
leaved  hat,  the  sun  being  unusually  warm  for  the  first 
days  of  April. 

"Ah!  my  children,"  he  said,  taking  the  chair  proffered 
by  the  courtesying  Lanaik,  and  sitting  down  rather 
wearily,  "I  am  glad  to  find  you  here  together."  He 
glanced  at  them  beneath  his  brows  and  paused,  care 
fully  dusting  his  sleeve,  which,  by-the-way,  was  speck- 
less.  A  short  silence  followed,  weighted  with  the  sug 
gestion  of  calamity,  and  Lanaik  looked  up  at  him  with 
the  eyes  of  one  in  mortal  fear.  Although  not  glanc 
ing  in  her  direction  at  all  the  priest  noticed  this,  and 
in  a  tone  utterly  at  variance  with  his  attitude,  said, 
gayly: 

"This  boy  here  seems  to  be  a  man  of  action,"  and  he 
pointed  over  his  shoulder  at  Pierrek,  who  was  eagerly 
watching  him.  "I  just  had  a  look  at  the  Stereden,  and 
nothing  could  be  more  satisfactory  than  the  way  in 
which  she  is  being  rejuvenated  .  .  .  yes,  assuredly  Pierrek 
will  be  one  of  those  men  who  get  on  in  the  world.  There 
is  in  the  universe — believe  me,  Lanaik — a  particular  spot 
for  each  man.  For  Pierrek  this  spot  is  a  boat,  big  or 
small,  but  always  a  boat!  Life  would  be  much  simpler 
if  people  would  recognize,  as  he  has  done,  where  their 
own  particular  spots  are  to  be  found." 

Pierrek  was  smiling  rather  grimly.  He  unconsciously 
realized  that  all  this  verbiage,  so  different  from  his 
patron's  usual  brevity  of  speech,  concealed  something 
serious.  Lanaik,  on  the  other  hand,  far  less  discerning 
than  her  boy,  showed  visible  relief.  Her  whole  counte- 

86 


GRAY    MIST 

nance  had  relaxed,  and  she,  too,  was  smiling  now,  but  in 
a  different  way. 

"Surely,  Monsieur  le  Recteur,"  she  interposed,  "what 
they  say  about  the  sardines  is  not  true.  What  will  be 
come  of  us  if  it  is?" 

M.  Kornog  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "In  these  times 
one  is  almost  compelled  to  suspect  one's  nearest  friends," 
he  answered,  lightly.  "Our  best  and  nearest  friends  here 
in  Kermarioker,  I  take  it,  are,  generally  speaking,  the 
sardines,  and  appearances  have  been  against  them  for 
one  or  two  seasons,  but  that  is  no  reason  why  they  should 
not  recant  and  visit  us  as  usual." 

"And  if  they  do  not,"  Pierrek  put  in,  quietly,  "Mammik 
need  not  worry.  As  I  told  her  a  while  ago,  I  can  always 
make  money  otherwise." 

"Then,"  cried  the  Cure",  rising  to  his  feet  with  what 
might  perhaps  have  been  termed  a  rather  overdone  as 
sumption  of  gayety,  "you  have  but  to  look  forward  to 
being  surprised  agreeably,  my  little  Lanaik,  whether  the 
recreant  sardines  appear  upon  the  scene  or  not!"  He 
tapped  Pierrek  on  the  shoulder  with  good-natured  play 
fulness,  and  with  a  laugh  and  a  nod  went  towards  the 
door.  "Whether  they  come  or  not,"  he  repeated,  stop 
ping  on  the  threshold  to  say,  casually,  "Aren't  you  going 
to  work,  too,  Moussaillon  ?  We  can  navigate  as  far  as 
the  quay  in  company,  if  you  wish." 

When  they  had  gone  Lanaik  remained  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  waiting  for  she  knew  not  what.  She 
had  lately  spent  a  great  part  of  her  existence  in  waiting 
for  things  intangible,  and  her  thoughts  drifted  desper 
ately  to  the  veiled  threat  hidden  behind  Pierrek's  last 
words.  If  the  sardine  season  was  bad,  she  was  aware 
that  next  spring  this  son  of  hers  (all  she  had  left  now  in 
the  world  to  love)  would  insist  on  joining  the  more  re- 

87 


GRAY    MIST 

munerative  cod-fishing  trade  .  .  .  and  then!  Her  hands 
and  feet  grew  cold  at  the  bare  idea,  and  she  shuddered 
involuntarily.  "I  must  work,"  she  said  to  herself,  and 
took  two  steps  towards  the  spinning-wheel  ready  laden 
with  flax  under  the  window,  but  as  she  was  bending  to 
draw  her  little  bench  forward  Pierrek  re-entered,  his  eyes 
wide  with  some  nameless  horror,  his  face  pale  and  sud 
denly  drawn  under  its  tan.  Bretons  have  a  great  dread 
of  anything  approaching  a  scene,  and  Lanaik  stood  per 
fectly  still,  holding  herself  in  a  control  that  was  pencilling 
deep  lines  between  her  brows  and  at  the  corners  of  her 
white  lips. 

"Oan-Gweled?"  she  whispered,  bending  a  little  tow 
ards  her  son.  "I  thought  there  was  something  ...  is 
he  ...  ?" 

"No!  no!"  Pierrek  interrupted,  angrily.  "Not  that, 
but  the  Syndic  has  had  news  that  the  mizzen-mast,  the 
dinghy,  and  the  wheel  of  the  Givellan-Mignon  have  been 
picked  up  floating  twelve  miles  from  here,  and  Mon 
sieur  le  Recteur  thought  best  that  I  should  tell  you." 

Lanaik  made  no  outcry.  This  was  the  shipwreck  ever 
present  to  the  mind  of  Breton  women,  the  warningless 
misfortune  they  all  expect  sooner  or  later.  Since  two  or 
three  days  she  had  feared  it,  for  a  great  storm  had  swept 
up  the  coast,  coming  from  the  mouth  of  the  Loire.  She 
merely  closed  her  eyes  and  dropped  to  her  knees,  cover 
ing  her  face  with  her  clasped  hands,  while  Pierrek  stood 
a  little  behind  her,  unconsciously  breaking  into  tiny  pieces 
the  delicate  main-mast  of  his  cherished  little  war-sloop. 

%  $  $  /    4  $  #  $ 

$  $  $  $  4  4 

For  nine  long  days  and  nights  the  friends  of  Oan- 
Gweled  had  taken  each  his  turn  at  watching  from  the 
look-out  rock  of  Tri-bezek  for  the  reappearance  of  his 

88 


GRAY    MIST 

corpse.  Unweariedly  they  had  kept  their  mournful  vigil, 
gazing  with  keen,  sea -trained  eyes  at  the  zebra -like 
streakings  of  the  fierce  Ann-Dinaou  current,  the  path 
that  drowned  men  take  when  drifting  home.  All  hope, 
however,  must  now  be  abandoned,  for  it  is  almost  with 
out  precedent  that  this  fated  period  of  nine  days  should 
be  overstepped  by  the  silent  voyagers  of  the  drift,  and 
Pierrek  coming  home  after  his  six  hours'  watch  on  the 
Tri-bezek  sadly  informed  his  mother  that  that  very 
night  the  proella1  would  take  place  at  the  home  of  the 
dead,  a  comfortable  stone  house  which  once  had  been 
a  manor,  and  stood  perched  vulture -like  on  the  top 
most  ridge  of  a  jagged  morne  on  the  other  side  of  ruined 
Kermario. 

Shortly  afterwards  Lanaik,  occupied  in  taking  from 
her  great,  silver-hinged  press  Pierrek's  and  her  own  best 
garments,  heard  the  "announcers"  stop  at  her  door. 
They  were  four  stalwart  fishermen,  old  friends  of  Henre", 
and  there  they  stood  bareheaded,  draped  in  their  long 
circular  mourning  cloaks  that  drooped  nearly  to  their 
feet  when  the  violent  wind  that  had  arisen  at  dawn  did 
not  whirl  them  like  the  sails  of  a  dismantled  boat  about 
their  tall  forms. 

"Peace  and  prosperity  to  all  those  who  dwell  here!" 
they  chorused,  in  deep  sea-voices  that  echoed  lamentably 
within  her  lonely  little  home.  "Pray  for  the  miserable 
soul  of  Oan-Gweled  that  still  hovers  above  the  raging 
deep!  The  venerated  widow  of  the  deceased  invites  you 
to  be  present  at  the  Nosvez-an-Anaon 2  that  will  take 
place  to-night,  as  also  to  attend  the  interment  of  the  cross 
to-morrow  morning  punctually  at  ten!" 

The  dirgelike  plaint  died  away  with  the  heavy  tramp 

1  A  strange  simulacrum  of  funeral  rites  which  is  supposed  to 
lay  the  spirit  of  the  unrecovered  drowned.  2  Vigil  of  Souls. 

89 


GRAY    MIST 

of  four  pairs  of  feet  redescending  towards  the  village,  and 
Lanaik  burst  into  hopeless  sobs. 

Truly  that  night  the  elements  themselves  seemed  de 
sirous  of  taking  part  in  the  general  mourning,  for  it  was 
a  veritable  danse  macabre  that  wind  and  waves  rendered 
as  they  met  below  the  cliffs,  a  swift,  harsh  rhythm,  amid 
which  some  invisible  gallop  of  skeletons  struck  a  shriller 
note  when  the  more  ponderous  orchestra  of  the  storm 
paused  a  second  to  take  breath. 

Long  files  of  sable-clad  people,  carrying  horn  lanterns 
to  light  them  on  their  dangerous  way,  were  already  head 
ing  for  the  widow's  house  when  Pierrek  and  Lanaik 
caught  up  with  them.  The  lad's  tall,  straight  form  was 
instantly  recognized,  even  in  that  gloom,  and  way  was 
made  for  him  and  his  bitterly  -  weeping  little  mother, 
since,  as  nearest  relatives  of  the  deceased,  they  must 
head  the  procession. 

Never  had  poor  Lanaik  felt  so  absolutely  at  the  end  of 
her  courage.  Was  there  nothing  but  misfortune  in  the 
world  then?  Here  she  was  widowed  at  thirty-four,  her 
life  practically  at  an  end,  her  heart  broken  past  all  con 
solation,  and  now  her  sister-in-law,  a  sweet-faced  woman 
from  the  poetic  coast  of  the  Baie  d'Audierne,  was  left 
alone,  too,  and  desolate,  with  four  babies  to  bring  up. 
"Oh!  the  sea,  the  cruel  thief!"  she  murmured,  turning 
her  whole  quivering  body  from  the  showers  of  spray  fly 
ing  before  the  wind,  and  buffeting  the  file  of  mourners 
creeping  at  a  snail's  pace  along  the  dizzy  cliff -path. 
Pierrek  had  thrown  a  protecting  arm  about  her,  and  she 
clung  helplessly  to  him,  determined  to  implore  him  once 
more  to-night  to  renounce  forever  his  plans  concerning 
the  grande  peche  Islandaise.  Stubbornly  for  so  yielding  a 
nature  as  hers,  she  hung  back  a  little  as  they  came  in 
sight  of  the  lighted  windows  of  the  ancient  dwelling  that 

90 


GRAY    MIST 

Oan-Gweled  had  left  with  so  light  a  heart  barely  two 
weeks  ago,  never  to  see  again.  But  Pierrek,  as  though 
guessing  the  cause  of  this  sudden  recoil,  led  her  on,  and 
she  found  it  so  impossible  to  resist  the  firm,  loving  press 
ure  of  that  strong  young  arm,  that  once  again  she  weak 
ened  and  suffered  herself  to  be  drawn  -co  the  entrance, 
draped  for  the  occasion  with  two  fluttering  deep-red  sails 
that  looked  as  black  as  the  night  itself  in  the  flickering, 
gust-shaken  glare  of  two  ship's  lanterns  hanging  to  the 
lintel.  Pushed  onward  by  the  stamping  crowd  behind, 
flustered  by  the  tempest,  and  firmly  urged  by  Pierrek's 
encircling  arm,  the  slender  woman  had  no  choice  but  to 
enter,  once  more  robbed  of  her  opportunity,  and  very 
sore  at  heart. 

A  large  portion  of  the  company  was  already  assembled 
within,  the  women  kneeling,  rosary  in  hand,  the  men 
standing  behind  them  with  devoutly  bent  heads,  mur 
muring  responses  to  the  droning  recital  of  the  prayers 
for  the  dead.  As  Lanaik  and  Pierrek  threaded  their  way 
through  the  crowd  a  trembling  old  voice  was  reciting: 
"De  profundis  clamavi  ad  te  Domine:  Domine  exaudi 
vocem  meam,"  and  they  were  just  in  time  to  reply  with 
a  heartfelt  "Amen"  before  room  was  made  for  them,  and 
they  found  themselves  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  still 
side  by  side. 

There  on  the  massive  table,  covered  with  a  white  sheet, 
lay  extended  on  an  armful  of  delicate  fern-fronds  a  plain 
cross  of  unvarnished  wood,  bearing  the  name  of  the  de 
parted  in  black  lettering.  Tall  blessed  candles  in  shining 
brass  holders  were  grouped  around  it,  while  carefully  dis 
posed  at  the  foot  of  the  cross  were  poor  Oan-Gweled's 
blue  jersey,  his  crimson  neckerchief  of  rich  silk,  his  pipe 
and  tobacco-pouch,  his  long-bladed  knife,  still  attached 
to  one  of  those  complicated  lanyards  that  sailors  take 
7  91 


GRAY    MIST 

such  pride  in  plaiting,  and  finally  a  photograph  taken 
years  ago  when  he  had  been  one  of  the  smartest  topmen 
on  the  frigate  Ariane,  a  poor  little  picture  that  looked 
drowned,  too,  and  very,  exceedingly,  dead,  in  its  tiny 
frame  of  faded  velvet. 

Bowing  low  before  this  pathetic  collection,  Pierrek 
took  from  the  plate  where  it  reposed  in  holy -water  a 
branch  of  green  sea- weed,  and  after  reverently  sprinkling 
the  cross,  and  murmuring  the  customary  Requiescat  in 
Pace,  he  passed  on  to  make  room  for  his  mother. 

"Come  and  salute  the  widow,"  some  one  whispered  at 
his  elbow.  He  turned,  to  find  the  Master  of  Ceremo 
nies,  a  white-haired  fisherman,  whose  bearing  under  these 
trying  circumstances  had  the  finished  courtesy  of  a  born 
diplomat — fortunately,  since  the  etiquette  of  such  cere 
monies  is  as  punctilious  in  primitive  Finisterre  as  that 
of  any  court  in  Europe.  Following  him  closely,  Pierrek 
edged  half-way  round  the  table,  and  stopped  in  front 
of  a  truly  appalling  figure,  crouching  so  close  to  what 
is  technically  called  the  "funeral  tressel,"  that  the  rigid 
folds  of  the  impenetrable  black  draperies  enwrapping 
it  touched  the  verdure  -  edged  cross.  This  was  Lizik 
Gweled,  the  tender,  mirth-loving  Aunt  Lizik  with  whom 
he  had  so  often  laughed  and  joked,  and  who  now,  her 
head  and  face  entirely  shrouded  by  the  drooping  hood, 
her  thin  hands  clasped  within  her  broad,  monkish  sleeves, 
seemed  some  mysteriously-veiled  presentment  of  death. 
She  had  not  moved  once  since  the  beginning  of  the  even 
ing,  and  it  was  merely  by  an  almost  imperceptible  in 
clination  that  she  acknowledged  the  low-voiced  formula 
of  introduction  with  which,  according  to  a  very  ancient 
custom,  each  new  sympathizer  is  ceremoniously  present 
ed.  Pierrek  shuddered  and  retreated  as  precipitately  as 
politeness  would  permit  from  this  ghastly  black  pyra- 

92 


GRAY    MIST 

mid,  which  it  seemed  to  him  must  surely  hide  a  total 
stranger  rather  than  a  near  and  dearly -loved  relative, 
and  almost  backed  into  the  irascible  Mari-Gwezek,  Vo- 
ceratrice  of  Kermarioker  when  occasion  required,  and  other 
wise  housekeeper  and  house  tyrant  of  its  devoted  Curd. 

She  was  a  singular  character,  this  Mari  -  Gwezek, 
protean  almost  in  her  many  moods  and  avocations,  the 
least  curious  of  which  was  certainly  not  the  one  she  was 
about  to  fulfil.  Her  delicately-wrinkled  face  seemed  al 
most  smooth  to-night,  her  youthful  blue  eyes  were  half 
closed  in  an  ecstasy  of  religious  fervor,  and  her  narrow, 
exquisitely  -  chiselled  features  wore  a  light  that  no  one 
outside  of  such  moments  had  ever  seen  reflected  there. 
This,  nevertheless,  was  the  woman  who  lorded  it  ruth 
lessly  over  her  own  particular  Monsieur  Pretre,  and 
dared  to  pit  her  small  strength  against  the  hardened 
sinews  of  any  loafer  coming  to  beg  at  the  Cure's  door 
after  swallowing  overmuch  cider — routing  them,  too,  in 
every  case.  But  to-night  all  this  side  of  her  strange  per 
sonality  had  been  doffed,  and  when  looking  at  her  it  be 
came  possible  to  believe  implicitly  in  the  weird  gifts  with 
which  she  was  credited  for  many  miles  around.  Her 
eloquence  at  least  was  indisputable,  and  as  she  took  her 
stand  at  the  head  of  the  tressel  a  silence  so  profound  as 
to  be  almost  uncanny  amid  so  great  a  gathering  replaced 
the  low  murmurs  and  whisperings,  that  reminded  one  of 
an  overcrowded  bee-hive. 

Pierrek  would  have  given  much  could  he  have  been 
spared  what  he  knew  only  too  well  was  to  follow.  The 
very  thought  of  his  uncle  Oan  had  become  horrible  to 
the  overwrought  lad,  young  giant  though  he  was,  and 
every  time  his  name  was  pronounced,  or  the  manner  of 
his  death  alluded  to,  he  could  not  help  remembering  the 
sight  he  had  beheld  only  a  few  weeks  before,  when  a 

93 


GRAY    MIST 

ghastly  shape  had  drifted  close  to  the  gunwale  of  the 
Stereden,  over  which  he  was  lounging.  A  shape  already 
faceless,  upon  which  a  multitude  of  devouring  things 
crawled  with  crab  legs,  or  clung  by  tiny  suckers  and 
tentacles  to  mouldering  remnants  of  clothing  visible  here 
and  there  through  the  far  -  streaming  shroud  of  gray 
weed.  Nausea  had  overtaken  him,  and  when  Nedelek 
Houarn,  recognizing  on  the  half-rotten  left  sleeve  the 
private  cipher  with  which  every  Breton  wife  marks  the 
working-clothes  of  her  man  as  a  precaution  against  the 
last  and  most  terrible  loss  of  all,  had  vainly  tried  to  gaff 
the  mangled  corpse  of  poor  little  Melan-Olier's  husband, 
the  young  owner  of  the  Stereden  had  turned  away  in  dis 
gust,  hiding  his  eyes  beneath  his  folded  arms.  Was  his 
uncle  already  like  that?  With  a  gulp  he  awoke  from 
this  waking  nightmare  to  hear  Mari-Gwezek  beginning  her 
impassioned  eulogy  of  the  dead,  in  a  deep-chested,  sonor 
ous  voice  that  she  reserved  for  such  improvisations  only: 

"The  wicked  waters  have  robbed  us  of  your  body,  O 
Oan-Gweled,  best  of  friends,  tenderest  of  husbands  and 
fathers  ..."  she  was  saying,  or,  rather,  chanting,  for  her 
diction  was  strictly  rhythmical  and  cadenced.  "Your 
soul,  however,  evoked  by  our  prayers,  is  here — is  it  not 
so,  Oan-Gweled?  ...  So  in  pity  give  us  a  sign  of  your 
presence  among  us,  manifest  yourself  to  those  here  as 
sembled,  or,  if  not  to  all,  at  least  to  that  poor  woman, 
your  widow,  who  loves  you  as  the  Saints  prescribe,  even 
beyond  death's  portals.  .  .  ."  Here  the  hitherto  immov 
able  figure  in  its  stiff  draperies  of  woe  swayed  forward, 
the  shrouded  head  fell  heavily  upon  the  pale-tinted 
fringe  of  ferns,  and  Lizik  Gweled  broke  into  those  heart- 
tearing  sobs  of  the  ordinarily  undemonstrative  which 
seem  to  wrench  a  wretched  human  frame  asunder. 

With  a  smothered  execration  Pierrek  shouldered  himself 

94 


GRAY    MIST 

out  of  his  immediate  entourage.  No!  He  would  certainly 
not  stay  and  see  this  crucifixion  to  the  end.  Never  mind 
what  that  ultra-decorous  assembly  of  relatives  and  friends 
thought  of  him!  Out  he  was  going,  and  that  at  once! 

Unfortunately,  the  space  closest  to  the  door  was 
crammed  to  suffocation,  and  he  was  forced  to  pause 
once  more,  with  the  soul-stirring  plaint  of  the  Voceratrice 
ringing  unbearably  in  his  ears.  "Your  soul,  O  Oan- 
Gweled!  is  now  by  the  strength  of  our  supplications  in 
corporate  with  this  cross,  that  to-morrow  we  shall  inter 
where  your  body  would  have  been  but  for  the  cruelty  of 
the  sea!  Bid  us  farewell  for  a  time,  beloved  friend  that 
we  have  lost  .  .  .  we  entreat  you  .  .  .  manifest  yourself  to 
us  who  know  that  you  are  here!"  Here  her  voice  sank 
to  such  sonorities  of  passionate  appeal,  and  aroused  such 
strange  and  uncomfortable  echoes  in  the  roof,  that  the 
whole  assemblage  swayed  with  the  same  shudder,  many 
bursting  out  into  sobs  and  groans  indescribably  nerve- 
racking  and  oppressive.  Pierrek,  maddened  beyond  en 
durance,  once  more  attempted  to  reach  the  head  of  the 
shallow  steps  descending  from  the  main  room  to  the  curi 
ously  jutting  porch  before  the  door,  but  stopped  with  a 
sudden  gasp. 

There,  right  in  front  of  him,  in  a  dusky  nook  of  the 
ancient  gray  wall,  like  a  saint  in  her  niche,  stood  the 
most  marvellous  little  apparition  he  had  ever  seen.  She 
combined,  it  seemed  to  him  at  one  glance,  all  the  per 
fections  of  the  women  of  his  race.  Exquisitely  formed, 
with  slight  square  shoulders,  and  as  straight  as  an  arrow, 
she  might  possibly  be  fifteen,  but  not  much  over  that. 
She  wore  the  picturesque  costume  of  Kastel-ar-Veur,  a 
village  of  Enez-Pers,1  an  island  some  twenty-five  miles 

1  Azure  Island. 
95 


GRAY    MIST 

distant  from  Kermarioker.  Behind  such  eyes  as  hers 
nothing  but  a  soul  pure  as  crystal  could  dwell.  Daring 
and  demure,  innocent  and  tantalizing  at  one  and  the 
same  time,  they  changed  color  with  every  passing  im 
pression  ;  just  now  in  the  semi-darkness  from  which  they 
peeped  they  seemed  as  green  as  two  bright  emeralds,  but 
no  doubt  by  daylight  they  might  fade  to  the  softer  tints 
of  beryl.  The  delicate  features  were  perfectly  chiselled, 
and  the  hair,  in  this  case  a  crowning  glory  indeed,  sparkled 
beneath  her  lace-edged  coiffe  where  it  caught  the  distant 
gleam  of  the  candles,  in  a  kind  of  crinkly  iridescence  like 
threads  of  pure  red  gold. 

Who  could  she  be,  Pierrek  asked  himself,  gazing  like 
one  hypnotized  at  the  small  figure  in  the  niche,  and  why 
had  he  never  seen  her  at  either  Fair  or  Pardon  f  She, 
however,  evidently  resented  his  unduly  prolonged  scru 
tiny,  for  a  flush  began  to  rise  upon  her  smooth  cheeks, 
and  suddenly  from  beneath  her  dark  lashes  what  he 
thought  the  fiercest  eyes  it  had  ever  been  his  lot  to  see 
shining  from  a  human  face  transfixed  him.  Trembling 
with  confusion  and  anger,  he  literally  sprang  over  the 
bowed  shoulders  of  some  men  kneeling  beside  him  and 
rushed  out. 


CHAPTER  VII 

When  Love  is  young,  the  livelong  day 
Between  December  swings  and  May; 

Naught  happens  but  to  run  askew, 

And  roses  intertwine  with  rue 
Till  wits  are  like  to  go  astray. 

Nor  aught  availeth  it  to  say, 
"Thus  will  I!"  Fate  doth  block  the  way, 
And  what  you  will  not  that  you  do, 
When  Love  is  young. 

O  bright  and  fleet  as  ocean  spray! 
O  memories  that  mock  decay! 

O  Youth,  beware,  and  take  thy  due! 

Lest  thou  regret  when  hours  are  few 
And  grates  the  spade  amid  the  clay, 

When  Love  was  young. 

M.  M. 

THE  village  of  Kastel-ar-Veur,  on  Enez-Pers,  lies  within 
sight — on  very  clear  days  that  is — of  the  twin  peaks  be 
tween  which  nestles  Kermarioker.  A  wild  and  danger 
ous  stretch  of  water  separates  it  from  the  main-land,  and 
it  is  whispered  that  a  vast  smuggled  commerce  radiates 
from  the  island,  one  of  the  most  poetically  beautiful  in 
all  Brittany! 

Whether  this  is  strictly  true  or  not,  the  fact  remains 
that  the  inhabitants  of  Enez-Pers  are  as  fierce  and  un 
sociable  as  can  well  be  imagined.  A  fine-looking  set  of 
men,  and  of  very  lovely  women,  clean,  honest,  and  smart 
exceedingly,  they  nevertheless  happen  to  be,  as  just 
mentioned,  peculiarly  shy  of  strangers. 

97 


GRAY    MIST 

Kastel-ar-Veur,1  the  well-named,  is  much  more  than 
wave-sequestered,  for  on  three  sides  of  the  plateau  on 
which  it  is  perched  cliffs  of  an  extraordinary  dark-sap 
phire  blue,  polished  by  the  assault  of  the  billows  well- 
nigh  to  the  brilliancy  of  the  gem  itself,  fall  a  sheer  three 
hundred  feet  to  the  jagged  belt  of  rocks  that  breast  the 
Atlantic  surge.  About  a  mile  beyond  the  village  lies  a 
curious-looking  property.  It  commands  one  of  the  most 
wonderful  views  in  this  wild  island  of  unrivalled  prospects, 
and  its  garden  and  orchard  extend  upon  a  spur  thrown 
against  the  falaise  as  a  buttress  might  possibly  be  thrown 
against  the  very  summit  of  a  tower.  The  whole  property 
is  surrounded  by  an  indestructible  wall,  twelve  feet  high 
by  six  feet  thick,  so  conscientiously  loop-holed  and  rein 
forced  that  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  its  having  once  been 
a  seignorial  stronghold.  Within  those  massive  fortifica 
tions  stands  a  plain  house  of  stone,  flanked  by  a  wind 
mill  on  one  side  and  a  sundial  on  the  other.  Whatever 
it  may  have  been  in  olden  days,  it  is  now  a  farm,  pure  and 
simple,  with  only  a  remnant  of  carving  here  and  there 
above  window  or  door,  and  a  steep-pitched  roof  of  blue 
slate  to  betray  its  nobler  origin.  The  garden  surround 
ing  it  is  an  irregular  nook,  rich  with  deep  color,  for  the 
climate  of  Enez-Pers,  though  stormy,  is  so  extraordinarily 
mild  that  a  rather  hardy  species  of  palm  flourishes  out-of- 
doors  the  year  round,  and  camellias,  fuchsias,  myrtles, 
pomegranates,  and  giant  geraniums  make  a  gay  blaze  in 
the  sun,  and  sweeten  the  sharpness  of  the  saline  breezes 
that  sweep  continually  above,  like  the  constant  fanning 
of  enormous  wings. 

This  plot  of  fertile  ground  was  scrupulously  neat  al 
ways,  and  denoted  the  care  of  a  skilled  and  loving  hand. 

1  Castle-of-the- Waves. 
98 


GRAY    MIST 

All  the  little  pathways  were  paved  with  a  multicolored 
gravel,  made  of  finely-broken  shells,  and  not  a  single  weed 
showed  among  the  flowers.  In  one  corner  throve  what 
the  little  owner  of  this  blossoming  empire  called  her  time 
keeper,  for  by  a  peculiarly  happy  inspiration  —  instinct 
one  might  almost  say  in  this  case — she  had  grouped 
there  a  number  of  plants  that  actually  marked  the  pas 
sage  of  the  hours.  Before  sunup  the  ipomaeas  unclosed 
their  petals,  this  example  being  followed  a  little  later  by 
some  very  beautiful  Iceland  poppies,  delicately  gilded, 
like  church  chalices.  These  were  in  turn  followed  by  the 
awakening  of  the  Belles  de  Jour,  the  Dames  d'onze  heures, 
the  saffron-hued  marigolds,  and  the  snowy  Stars  of  Beth 
lehem.  Still  later  on  the  graceful  march  was  continued 
by  velvety  evening  primroses,  Belles  de  Nuit  of  deepest 
cerulean  blue,  and  at  last  brought  to  a  triumphant  finale, 
as  night  regained  her  domain,  by  the  glorious  opening  of 
the  queen  of  all  these  beauties — a  sort  of  cactus,  evident 
ly  belonging  to  the  family  of  the  "Cereus  grandiflorus," 
which,  enthroned  in  a  square  green  tub,  lorded  it  most 
haughtily  over  its  humbler  companions.  This  delicious 
bloom  of  a  silvery  pink,  perfuming  the  whole  night,  was 
to  Faik  1  Karadek  a  never-ceasing  wonder,  and  ever  since 
a  sailor  cousin  had  brought  back  to  her  from  distant 
tropic  lands  the  little  cutting  from  which  it  had  devel 
oped,  it  had  been  the  pride  of  her  young  heart. 

To-day,  with  tucked-up  gown  and  bare  arms,  she  was 
working  busily  in  this  delightful  enclosure,  raising  her 
lovely  head,  however,  often  enough  to  search  the  cloud 
less  but  ever-slightly  hazy  sky  for  the  tiny  lark  trilling 
down  to  her  from  the  softened  blue.  Near  at  hand,  in 
the  carefully  -  kept  vegetable  -  garden,  where  nourishing 

1  Pronounced  Fah-eek. 
99 


GRAY    MIST 

roots  and  herbs  grew  in  profusion,  her  uncle,  old  Tad 
Karadek,  the  miller  of  Kastel-ar-Veur,  was  plying  rake 
and  hoe  with  extreme  industry.  A  very  tall,  spare  man, 
this  Tad  Kara"dek,  hollow  of  cheek  and  sharp  of  coun 
tenance,  as  well  as  of  intellect.  His  most  remarkable 
characteristic,  however,  was  the  singular  keenness  of  his 
eyes,  reminding  one  involuntarily  of  a  suddenly  unhooded 
hawk,  and  suggesting  emotional  possibilities,  though  his 
face  was  that  of  a  thoroughly  unemotional  person  verg 
ing  on  the  taciturn. 

"Faik,"  he  suddenly  called,  resting  his  arms  on  his 
reversed  rake  as  though  upon  a  railing,  and  turned  his 
head  in  her  direction,  "I  understand  that  you  had  a  very 
pleasant  time  during  your  visit  to  the  main-land.  Why 
don't  you  say  something  about  it  ?  Come  here  and  tell 
me  who  you  saw  there!" 

The  girl  advanced  across  the  band  of  velvety  grass 
separating  them,  and  took  her  stand  beside  the  mossy 
old  sundial  close  to  the  onion-patch  her  uncle  had  been 
weeding. 

"Let  me  see,"  the  old  man  continued,  without  giving 
her  time  to  begin  her  story,  "you  were  there  four  days, 
were  you  not?" 

"Yes,  Uncle  Gwion,1  four  days,"  Faik  answered,  like 
an  echo.  "But  I  don't  know  why  you  should  think  that 
I  had  a  pleasant  time,  because  I  didn't!" 

"Ah!  And  what  was  it  that  displeased  you,  my 
daughter?" 

"Well,  for  one  thing,  Motreb2  Guenek  took  me  to 
Oan-Gweled's  proella,  and  it  was  dreadful.  I  could  not 
sleep  for  two  nights  for  thinking  of  it!" 

"So?     I  am  sorry.     You  should  not  be  so  easily  upset, 

1  Breton  for  Guy.  *  Aunt. 


GRAY    MIST 

Faik.  It  is  very  bad  for  the  health,  and  you  are  getting 
too  old  to  be  frightened  at  a  simple  little  ceremony  like 
that!"  Not  a  muscle  of  the  grim  old  countenance  had 
moved,  nor  did  Tad l  Karadek  look  at  the  girl  while 
speaking  to  her.  He  appeared,  however,  to  be  watching 
her  slim,  sunburned  hands,  which  were  moving  nervously 
upon  the  shining  surface  of  her  pale-blue  apron. 

"My  daughter,"  he  resumed,  smoothly,  "it  seems  to 
me  somehow  that  there  is  still  something  you  do  not 
relate.  I  have  known  you  too  long  not  to  notice  that 
since  your  return  you  have  not  been  quite  yourself. 
Don't  you  like  the  people  of  Kermarioker?" 

Faik  moved  a  little  closer,  and  crossed  her  hands  one 
over  the  other  on  the  top  of  the  sundial  before  answer 
ing. 

"They  are  not  much  like  our  people  here!"  she  said, 
after  a  pause,  with  a  little  laugh. 

"No,"  Gwion  Karddek  remarked,  meditatively,  "to  be 
sure  not.  They  are  a  different  race,  strong  and  well 
enough  of  their  kind;  well  enough,  but  foolish  in  the 
way  they  do  business  .  .  .  not  a  scrap  of  initiative  or 
enterprise,  and  a  little  dull  too;  is  it  not  so?  It  is  over 
twenty  years  since  I  went  over  to  Kermarioker  you  know." 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,  Tadik.2     I  don't  know." 

For  some  moments  the  old  man  said  nothing.  He  was 
evidently  thinking  deeply,  and  his  piercing  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  a  shaggy  clump  of  fennel  with  an  inscruta 
ble  immobility  that  this  savory  herb  scarcely  deserved. 
Once  he  glanced  slowly  towards  his  little  niece,  leaning 
half  across  the  sun-dial,  still  with  downcast  eyes  and 
interlocked  ringers,  but  instantly  returned  to  his  contem 
plation  of  the  fennel. 

1  Father.  2  Little  Father. 


GRAY    MIST 

"I  know  them  well,"  he  returned  at  last,  speculatively. 
"Some  of  them  I  esteemed  highly  indeed,  Oan-Gweled 
among  others,  and  his  half-brother,  Hoarve  Rouzik — 
a  sailor,  that  one,  such  as  we  don't  often  find  nowa 
days.  ..."  Here  he  stopped  again,  and  passed  his  long, 
thin  hand  across  his  eyes,  as  though  the  sun-rays  dan 
cing  over  the  onion-patch  were  dazzling  his  sight,  and  in 
doing  so  he  glanced  again  unobtrusively  at  Faik.  ' '  By-the- 
way,"  he  concluded,  in  a  lighter  manner,  almost  amount 
ing  to  indifference,  "did  you  see  anything  of  the  Rouziks? 
Lanaik,  poor  child,  was  once  a  beauty.  I  dare  say,  how 
ever,  that  she  is  sadly  changed  now!" 

A  very  slight  flush,  no  pinker  than  the  heart  of  a 
blush  rose,  crept  slowly  into  the  girl's  rounded  cheeks. 

"Yes,  I  saw  Itron1  Lanaik  at  her  brother-in-law's 
proella.  She  is  still  very  beautiful — very,"  she  added, 
with  conviction,  "and  you  can't  imagine  how  young  she 
looks,  hardly  older  than  ..."  She  stopped  abruptly, 
and  Gwion  Karadek  suddenly  turned  his  rake  right  end 
upward  once  more,  and  drew  it  over  a  few  weeds  scat 
tered  along  the  row  nearest  to  him. 

"She  has  a  boy,  hasn't  she?"  he  remarked,  innocently, 
his  back  to  the  girl,  and  assiduously  hooking  more  wilted 
weeds.  "Almost  grown  up  now,  I  should  say.  Did  you 
see  him  too?" 

Faik  frowned,  and  tilted  her  straight  little  nose  im 
periously  into  the  air.  "Oh!  yes,  I  saw  him!"  she  said, 
in  a  way  that  did  not  have  the  slightest  resemblance  to 
her  former  manner.  "He's  no  boy  at  all,  Tad  Gwion! 
I'd  call  him  an  ill-mannered  bear,  if  I  wished  to  speak 
of  him  at  all!" 

The  worthy  miller  turned  around,  genuinely  astonished 

1  Madame. 
zoa 


GRAY    MIST 

this  time.  "Softly,  softly,  my  girl!"  he  said,  reprovingly. 
"Surely  you  must  be  mistaken,  for  the  Rouziks  have 
always  been  proper  people,  from  father  to  son,  and  I 
cannot  believe  that  this  one  has  given  you  cause  for 
speaking  as  you  do." 

Poor  Faik  collapsed,  more  at  the  justice  of  the  re 
proach  than  at  the  tone,  which  had  been  neither  severe 
nor  unfriendly,  and  began  to  excuse  herself. 

"I  meant  no  harm,"  she  stammered,  crimson  now  with 
confusion.  "He  seemed  bold  and  .  .  .  awkward  to  me 
...  he  has  such  big  owl's  eyes,  and  such  brusque  ways. 
But — excuse  me,  Tadik,  I  must  go  and  see  whether  the 
milk  is  ready  to  skim,  else  Moereb-goz1  will  scold  me!" 
And  with  a  birdlike  flirt  of  her  petticoats  she  was  gone. 

Left  alone,  Tad  Karadek  began  slowly  to  pace  back 
ward  and  forward  from  the  onion-patch  to  a  broad 
opening  in  the  northern  wall,  all  garlanded  with  shin 
ing  ivy,  through  which  the  eye  embraced  one  of  those 
marvellous  heaths  of  Brittany  where,  above  swelling 
waves  of  pink  and  purple,  myriad  plumes  of  golden- 
flowered  genesta  courtesy  with  every  touch  of  the  breeze. 
To  the  left  cornfields  and  vineyards,  interspersed  with 
fig  and  almond  trees  growing  amid  the  wheat,  sloped 
gently  down  towards  a  square-towered  church,  while  on 
the  right  the  heath  rose  in  soft  gradations  to  where 
ponderous  groups  of  Druidical  stones,  both  dolmens  and 
menhirs,  all  girdled  deep  with  thickets  of  blackberry, 
were  gauntly  profiled  above  the  uttermost  cape  of  the 
island. 

"Ac  'han  to/"2  he  said,  half  aloud,  stopping  in  the 
midst  of  his  fifteenth  turn.  "So  Mother  was  right,  as 
usual,  and  Faik  seems  to  have  met  her  fate!  That's  the 

1  Great-aunt.  2  Eh  bien  done!     (Eh!  now  then!) 

103 


GRAY    MIST 

way  with  our  girls:  when  they  resent  admiration  it's 
because  they're  hit!"  He  resumed  his  quarter-decking 
promenade  with  a  little  sigh  that  was  half  a  laugh,  still 
muttering  to  himself.  "Mother's  got  sharp  eyes,  for  all 
her  seventy-five  years  .  .  .  and  sharp  ears,  too.  I  must 
ask  her  again  what  it  was  she  heard  the  lad  say  to  Nedelek 
Houarn  on  the  way  home  from  the  ceremony.  .  .  .  Yes, 
I'll  have  to  ask  her." 

Sharp  ears  and  eyes  Moereb-goz  Tinaik  certainly  had. 
Indeed,  this  estimable  dame  with  the  compressed,  thin- 
lipped  mouth,  the  scarcely-wrinkled  face,  and  the  cold, 
pale-gray  eyes,  was  a  personality  not  to  be  disregarded. 
She  was  just  then  constantly  glancing  at  her  grandniece 
down  the  length  of  the  cool  dairy,  where  they  were  both 
working.  This  useful  apartment  was  of  a  cleanliness 
that  would  have  shamed  even  a  Dutch  Vrouw,  and  with 
its  pale-green  walls,  painted  freshly  every  year,  its  two 
long  windows  looking  out  upon  a  flagged  yard,  in  the 
exact  centre  of  which  yawned  an  old  -  fashioned  stone 
well  from  which  the  purest  and  coldest  drinking-water 
on  Enez-Pers  was  drawn,  it  was  somehow  or  other  typical 
of  Moereb-goz  Tinaik  herself,  grim,  polished,  cold,  and 
uncompromising. 

Faik,  bending  over  a  pan  of  milk,  was  idly  tapping  a 
long-handled  wooden  spoon  against  its  rim,  and  evidently 
thinking  not  at  all  of  the  work  before  her,  for  her  ex 
traordinary  eyes  had  a  fixed,  far-away  look  wholly  in 
compatible  with  housekeeping  duties.  Dame  Tinaik,  es 
sentially  a  woman  of  action,  quietly  put  down  the  snowy 
cloth  with  which  she  had  been  drying  the  newly-washed 
churn,  and  walked  swiftly  and  noiselessly  across  the 
dairy.  She  had  been  on  her  feet  all  the  morning,  hurry 
ing  hither  and  thither  over  the  whole  domain,  interfering 
with  the  laborers'  easy-going  fashion  of  doing  work,  and 

104 


GRAY    MIST 

ordering  the  wenches  about  with  that  boundless  capacity 
for  action  and  contempt  for  inefficiency  so  peculiarly  her 
own,  but  she  was  not  in  the  least  tired,  and  from  the 
exquisitely-broidered  edge  of  her  batiste  head-band,  to  the 
scrupulously- varnished  tips  of  her  narrow  black  sabots, 
she  was  a  picture  of  idealized  neatness. 

Faik  made  an  involuntary  movement  of  impatience 
as  her  great-aunt  touched  her  on  the  shoulder.  It  was 
hateful  to  be  thus  awakened  from  her  pleasant  little 
dream,  and  besides,  although  she  dearly  loved  Dame 
Tinaik,  that  venerable  person  had  an  imperious  way 
which  invariably  aroused  a  spirit  of  opposition  in  her 
self. 

"Well,  Moereb-goz,"  she  said,  a  little  nervously,  "what 
is  it?" 

"It  is,"  the  old  woman  answered,  dryly,  "that  you 
have  only  one  hour  left  to  skim  all  these  pans,  and  at 
the  rate  you  are  advancing  that  will  prove  insufficient!" 

Faik  bit  her  lip  impatiently,  watching  the  thin  brown 
fingers  deftly  tilting  the  first  pan  back  and  forth,  and 
offered  not  a  word  of  comment,  acquiescence,  or  ob 
jection. 

"Your  work  has  been  very  unsatisfactorily  done  since 
our  return  from  Kermarioker,  and  I  do  not  intend  that 
it  should  continue  to  be  so.  Oh!  you  need  not  toss  your 
head  like  that,  I  assure  you!  I  quite  mean  what  I  say. 
Nor  need  you  think  that  I  won't  know  how  to  make  you 
mind  my  words,  because  I  seldom  fail  in  that  respect 
with  anybody.  And  remember  that  idleness  is  the 
mother  of  all  sins." 

Idle!  she,  Faik!  Her  pretty  face  grew  quite  white 
with  anger  at  the  accusation.  No,  she  was  not  idle,  as 
her  acid  great  -  aunt  very  well  knew;  she  was,  on  the 
contrary,  a  model  of  industry  as  a  rule,  but  she  needed 

105 


GRAY    MIST 

to  be  roused  just  now,  and  Dame  Tinaik,  who  had  a 
singular  faculty  for  probing  at  one  glance  the  deepest 
depths  of  a  riddle,  and  of  tearing  the  heart  out  of  it, 
ignoring  with  supreme  generalship  all  possible  side  issues, 
had  pounced,  as  it  were,  on  the  central  thread — the  girl's 
extreme  pride  —  to  successfully  achieve  her  aim.  Not 
only  was  the  milk  superiorly  skimmed  some  minutes 
before  the  appointed  time,  but  several  other  neglected 
duties  were  attended  to,  and  by  three  o'clock,  having 
removed  her  working  apron  and  smoothed  her  lace  coiffe 
which  never  needed  smoothing,  Faik  was  on  her  way  to 
the  village  to  do  some  urgent  errands. 

This  little  village  of  Kastel-ar-Veur  is  one  of  the  most 
picturesque  to  be  found  in  that  part  of  Brittany.  You 
come  upon  it  suddenly  at  the  end  of  a  narrow  road  sunk 
between  two  towering  hedges  of  thorny  whin  and  giant 
ferns  of  an  exceedingly  appetizing  green,  and  the  antiq 
uity  and  irregularity  of  its  thatched  granite  houses,  each 
surrounded  by  a  strip  of  well  -  cared  -  for  garden,  claims 
instant  approval.  No  two  buildings  are  quite  alike,  and 
yet  they  all  display  a  family  resemblance,  a  common  air 
of  solidity  and  calm  security  which  a  wooden  or  even  a 
brick  homestead  can  never  hope  to  achieve.  There  are 
ideal  clipped  box  hedges  here  and  there,  and  even  the 
little  gray  inn  at  the  lower  end  of  the  High  Street — a 
simple  flat  road,  deserving  neither  of  these  appellations 
— is  bowered  in  variegated  spindle-trees,  and  pink-tufted 
feathery- foliaged  tamarisks  that  would  make  an  artist's 
mouth  water — were  artists  ever  allowed  to  land  on  Enez- 
Pers! 

After  doing  her  errands,  Faik  went  down,  her  basket 
on  her  arm,  towards  the  harbor — nothing  more  nor  less 
than  a  bite  taken  out  of  the  towering  crags  by  Nature 
during  some  prehistoric  convulsion — the  abrupt  sides  of 

1 06 


GRAY    MIST 

which  are  dotted  with  stone-pines  of  extreme  age,  red- 
trunked  and  flat  of  top,  like  great,  fuzzy  umbrellas.  Be 
neath  their  checkered  shade,  cascades  of  heather,  dammed 
up  here  and  there  by  tall  ridges  of  sturdy  foxgloves,  fall 
to  the  very  edge  of  the  sands,  and  these  two  rose-colored 
slopes  half  -  enclosing  the  pale  -  gold  of  the  narrow  beach 
and  the  soft  brilliance  of  the  sea,  seem  something  rare 
and  precious,  reposeful  to  the  eye  after  the  habitual  gray 
and  emerald  and  silver  of  Breton  coast-views. 

Slowly  Faik  followed  the  white  hem  of  the  incoming 
sea,  walking  by  preference  on  the  firm  damp  sand  smooth 
ed  and  pressed  down  by  the  last  tide,  and  after  a  little 
came  to  a  particularly  deserted  stretch  of  shore  which 
she  must  traverse  in  order  to  reach  the  place  whither  the 
last  of  her  errands  called  her — the  funny  little  dwelling 
of  a  lobster  fisher,  where  her  great-aunt  was  in  the  habit 
of  sending  her  every  Thursday  afternoon  in  search  of  this 
delicacy.  On  Friday  the  House  of  Kara"dek  "fasted"  on 
Soupe  de  homard  aux  six  herbes,  and  there  are  worse  things 
than  that! 

Half-way  across,  the  girl  stopped  short  to  look  at  a 
chaloupe  stranded  upon  the  sand,  with  inclined  hull, 
which  the  swiftly  gaining  little  waves  were  beginning  to 
surround  again.  Faik  bent  to  read  the  name  lettered  in 
white  on  the  stern,  being  always  curious  of  things  mari 
time,  and  considering  her  uncle's  pretty  farm  and  prosper 
ous  little  mill  quite  an  exile  to  a  sailor's  daughter  like  herself. 

"Stereden-Ab-Vor,"  she  read,  with  a  little,  pleased  smile. 
It  was  a  pretty  name,  she  thought,  and  was  about  to  re 
sume  her  way,  when  a  fresh  young  voice  said,  gayly,  at 
her  back: 

"Want  to  embark,  Vamezel  f  " l 

1  Mademoiselle  or  demoiselle. 

8  107 


GRAY    MIST 

Faik  swung  round  on  her  tiny  sabots  with  a  sharp 
exclamation,  her  eyes  positively  shooting  forth  green 
flames  as  she  confronted  a  tall  young  mariner,  his  dark 
bgret  jauntily  set  on  one  side,  who  at  sight  of  her  re 
coiled  in  amazement. 

"Vamezel  Kara"dek!"  he  gasped,  turning  actually  gray 
beneath  his  tan,  I  ...  I  ...  didn't  know,  excuse  me. 
...  I  should  never  .  .  .  never  have  come!" 

Faik's  sole  response  was  a  stare  and  a  scowl.  Her 
cheeks  glowed  with  the  brightness  of  one  of  her  own 
cherished  carnations,  and  she  held  her  underlip  viciously 
between  her  square  little  teeth!  Truly  this  was  a  most 
difficult  little  person,  pretty  as  a  picture  in  her  boiling 
wrath,  but  still  excessively  disconcerting,  and  poor  Pier- 
rek,  awkwardly  shifting  from  one  foot  to  the  other, 
wished  himself  a  hundred  yards  below  the  ground.  His 
coup  de  tete  in  coming  to  Enez-Pers,  whither  some  irre 
sistible  power  had  been  drawing  him  ever  since  he  had 
found  out  from  Ne'delek  Houarn  who  Faik  was,  seemed 
monstrous  to  him  now.  He  had  not  intended  to  seek 
her  out  at  all,  but  merely  to  breathe  for  a  short  while  the 
same  air  as  herself,  and  now  he  had  certainly  offended 
her  past  pardon  by  this  unwarrantable  intrusion  upon 
her  island! 

Faik  made  one  imperious  step  towards  him.  Her 
violent  nature  prompted  a  fierce  attack  and  a  torrent  of 
reproaches,  but  suddenly  she  stopped,  and  said,  with  a 
curious  little  contraction  of  her  rosebud  lips: 

"I  don't  own  this  beach!  Any  one  can  come  here! 
.  .  .  but  we  don't  like  strangers  here!  It's  supposed  on 
Enez-Pers  to  be  good  manners  to  mind  one's  own  busi 
ness,  and  not  to  go  round  speaking  to  people  one  doesn't 
know!" 

This  was  hard,  and  the  wretched  lad  winced.  "But 

1 08 


GRAY    MIST 

.  .  .  when  I  spoke  ...  I  didn't  know  it  was  you,  Va- 
mezel!"  he  stammered,  rolling  his  beret  like  dough  be 
tween  his  trembling  fingers. 

Their  eyes  met  again,  and  Faik  still  further  straight 
ened  her  small  figure,  though  it  was  already  an  uncom 
promisingly  erect  as  Moereb-Goz  Tinaik's  own! 

"Oh,  really!"  and  mademoiselle  somehow  seemed  at  a 
loss  for  a  moment.  "Well,  will  you  go  now?"  she  con 
tinued,  her  voice  vibrating  harshly,  but  with  an  emotion 
which  a  saner  listener  would  no  longer  have  called  angry. 

"Oh  yes!  Vamezel  Faik,  I  am  going!"  he  said,  but 
without  moving  an  inch.  He  would  no  more  have  pre 
sumed  to  disobey  her  than  if  she  were  the  Queen  of 
Heaven  herself,  but  he  was  literally  rooted  to  the  spot 
by  an  impulse  quite  uncontrollable,  and  she,  looking 
haughtily  at  him,  gave  him  another  scowl  of  intense 
reproach.  She  longed  to  run  away,  but  her  strength  and 
usual  buoyancy  seemed  to  have  taken  unaccountable 
leave  of  absence,  and  she  also  remained  anchored  to  the 
soft,  damp  sand. 

"Good-bye,  then,"  Pierrek  murmured,  and  Faik,  re 
leased  from  the  spell,  turned  and  walked  abruptly  up  the 
beach,  then,  quickening  her  pace,  she  suddenly  sprang 
lightly  over  a  flat-topped  bowlder,  and  he  saw  her  mak 
ing  for  the  path  leading  to  the  lobster  fisher's  cliff-dwell 
ing  at  a  swift  run. 

There  were  hot  tears  in  Pierrek's  eyes,  and  stamping 
his  foot  he  brushed  them  roughly  away.  "Catch  me  ever 
coming  here  again!"  he  said,  furiously. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

With  a  stern  cincture  did  the  Savage  Sea 

Girdle  in  jealousy  the  lonely  isle; 
Huge  crags  of  syenite  and  porphyry 

Whereon  a  mad  surge  thundered  all  the  while, 

Made  but  a  lowly  base  on  which  to  pile 
Cliffs  heaven-scaling,  pinnacled  and  sheer, 

That  with  vast  eyes  of  iron  seemed  to  smile 
Sphinx-like,  as  Time  himself  were  naught  to  fear, 
And  Man  a  dancing  mote,  yflown  as  soon  as  here. 

Yet  mariners  who  fearfully  did  fare, 

Saw  cottage  homes,  and  hearth-smoke  rise,  ywis, 

Amid  the  emerald  herbage  everywhere 
Fledging  the  hoar  lip  of  the  precipice, 
And  orchard-scent,  and  sweeter  e'en  than  this 

Came  on  the  laden  wind,  for  at  one  side 

Through  thickets  of  white-thorn  and  clematis, 

The  uplands  slanted  to  the  people's  pride, 

A  little  sheltered  port,  where  vessels  could  abide. 

Rude  were  the  folk,  gray-eyed,  red-haired  and  tall, 

Hateful  of  strangers,  turbulent  and  brave, 
Farmers  and  fishermen,  and  some  withal 

Tore  a  fierce  living  from  the  whelming  wave 

Wafting  a  secret  sail — but  to  enslave 
The  heart  for  aye,  it  needed  but  to  see 

Their  low-voiced  maidens,  slender,  sweet,  and  grave, 
Fairest  of  all  who  in  fair  Brittany 
Ever  wore  wide-winged  coiffe,  or  told  a  rosary. 

M.  M. 

MARI-GWEZEK,  holding  the  door  of  the  presbytery 
barely  ajar,  stood  with  one  foot  in  the  crack,  glaring  at 
the  visitor  waiting  on  the  steps  outside. 


"Is  Monsieur  le  Recteur  at  home?"  Madame  Karadek 
asked,  in  her  most  imperious  manner. 

"Yes,"  the  other  admitted,  "but  he  can't  be  disturbed.' ' 

"That's  what  we  shall  see,"  was  the  unexpected  reply, 
and  the  door  was  pushed  so  suddenly  that  Mari-Gwezek( 
routed  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  fell  back  in  disorder, 
leaving  free  passage  to  her  redoubtable  adversary,  and 
stood  at  bay  choking  with  rage. 

"Now  announce  me!"  the  unruffled  owner  of  the  mill 
at  Kastel-ar-Veur  commanded.  "And  tell  Monsieur  le 
Recteur  that  I  am  in  a  hurry." 

What  might  have  followed  must  remain  a  subject  for 
the  wildest  conjecture,  for  at  that  moment  M.  Kornog, 
attracted  by  the  sound  of  voices,  appeared  most  oppor 
tunely  on  the  threshold  of  his  study,  whither,  to  Mari- 
Gwezek's  inexpressible  disgust,  he  at  once  ushered  Ma 
dame  Karadek. 

"I  am,"  the  visitor  said,  by  way  of  introduction, 
"Tinaik  Karadek,  Monsieur  le  Recteur,  and  I  have  trav 
elled  all  the  way  from  Enez-Pers  to  see  if  you  and  I  can 
not  understand  each  other." 

Taken  utterly  by  surprise,  the  excellent  Cure  looked  at 
her  for  a  few  seconds  as  though  asking  himself  whether 
the  lady's  reason  was  not  slightly  unhinged! 

"Understand  each  other?"  he  echoed  in  bewilderment, 
for  to  his  knowledge  he  had  never  before  set  eyes  on  this 
curious  person. 

"That  is  what  I  said!"  she  remarked,  emphatically, 
shaking  one  thin  hand  from  side  to  side.  "To  under 
stand  each  other."  She  had  quietly  seated  herself  in 
the  Cure's  own  arm-chair,  and  was  looking  him  resolutely 
in  the  eye. 

"Certainly,  certainly,"  he  said,  soothingly.  "But  on 
what  point,  my  dear  Madame?" 


GRAY    MIST 

"I'm  going  to  tell  you  that,"  she  condescended. 
"First,  however,  may  one  inquire  if  you  are  really  the 
guardian  of  young  Pierrek  Rouzik?" 

The  Cure",  who  in  desperation  had  taken  a  chair  oppo 
site  to  her,  sat  bolt  upright.  "Yes,"  he  said,  glancing 
curiously  into  her  face,  "I  am  Pierrek  Rouzik's  guardian, 
under  the  will  of  his  father,  Yan-Herve  Rouzik,  deceased 
in  this  village  two  years  ago  .  .  .  and,"  he  added  with  in 
tention,  "I  am  also  the  boy's  stanch  friend!" 

"No  doubt,  no  doubt!  But  that  will  only  complicate 
matters  a  bit  more!"  stated  Madame  Karadek. 

The  Curb's  patience,  never  of  very  long  duration,  was 
rapidly  reaching  its  limit. 

"Sacred  name  of  a — pipe!"  he  muttered,  swinging  one 
foot  impatiently  up  and  down.  Then,  directly  to  his 
visitor:  "Don't  you  think  you'd  better  come  out  with 
the  murder?" 

"That's  what  I  would  have  done  long  ago  if  you  hadn't 
kept  interrupting,"  she  said,  composedly;  "I've  not  come 
here  to  amuse  myself  or  you!" 

"That,"  admitted  the  Cure,  "is  certainly  a  fact,  as  far 
as  I  am  concerned,  at  least!" 

"Well,  then,  the  sooner  you  let  me  talk  the  better!" 
she  remarked,  placidly;  "and  see  here,  Monsieur  le  Rec- 
teur,  it  will  be  to  your  advantage  to  give  me  your  entire 
attention!" 

The  priest  threw  up  his  hands  in  angry  bewilderment. 
"That's  it,"  he  cried,  "talk!  It's  all  I  ask  of  you,  and 
the  Saints  know  that  it's  a  new  departure  for  me  to  im 
plore  a  woman  to  do  so!  Ordinarily  they  make  my  ears 
sore  enough  with  their  eternal  clack!" 

For  the  first  time  something  like  a  smile  wrinkled  the 
old  woman's  thin  lips.  "You  priests  don't  as  a  rule  give 
away  your  chances  in  that  direction  either,"  she  put  in 


GRAY    MIST 

ironically.  "But  no  matter.  To  come  at  last  to  the 
point,  I  must  tell  you  if  you  don't  happen  to  know  it 
already,  that  your  Pierrek  Rouzik  is  in  love  with  my 
grandniece  Faik,  and  that  ..." 

"Pierrek  in  love  .  .  .  pshaw!"  the  Curd  shouted,  half- 
rising  in  his  seat  with  excitement;  "a  lad  scarcely  eigh 
teen!  You  don't  know  what  you're  saying,  Madame 
Karadek!" 

"Sit  down,  Monsieur  le  Recteur!  There's  no  use  in 
getting  apoplectic  about  it,  because  I'm  sure  of  my  facts. 
Pierrek  Rouzik  has  been  in  love  with  my  grandniece 
Faik  Karadek  ever  since  he  saw  her  at  Oan  Gweled's 
proella  eight  months  ago,  which  is  just  eight  months  too 
long  for  my  taste!" 

"And  what  proofs  have  you  got  to  offer?"  interrupted 
the  refractory  listener  again. 

"Oh!  plenty;  but  that  needn't  concern  you  now. 
What  does,  however,  is  that  neither  my  son  nor  I  desire 
affairs  to  go  any  farther.  Faik  will  be  very  well  pro 
vided  for,  and  when  we  die — which  I  trust  will  not  be 
for  a  long  time  to  come — she'll  inherit  the  farm,  the  mill, 
and  a  few  other  trifles  worthy  to  be  taken  into  considera 
tion.  You  will  understand,  this  being  so,  that  we  look 
higher  than  a  penniless  lad  .  .  .  and  a  fisherman  at  that!" 

"Penniless  .  .  .  not  so  penniless  as  all  that!"  the  Cure 
was  betrayed  by  indignation  into  exclaiming;  "he  owns 
a  fine  chaloupe  as  good  as  new  ...  a  good  house,  a  de- 
centish  plot  of  ground.  ..." 

"Turlutu-tu,  Monsieur  le  Recteur,"  sneered  Dame 
Tinaik,  "his  mother  may  marry  again  and  have  twenty 
children  .  .  .  don't  shrug  your  shoulders;  twenty  is  per 
haps  saying  too  much,  but  I  understand  myself.  ...  In 
fine,  she's  a  young  woman  .  .  .  too  young  to  finish  her 
life  alone,  anyhow.  Moreover,  house,  chaloupe,  and  de- 


GRAY    MIST 

centish  plot  of  ground  with  the  young  man  thrown  in 
don't  tempt  us,  and  that's  why  I've  come  to  warn  you 
that  we'll  have  nothing  to  do  with  it  ...  at  any  price!" 

"And  who's  asking  you  to?"  the  Cure  retorted,  vio 
lently.  "Not  I,  you  may  be  sure.  What's  more,  I  am 
persuaded  that  you  have  imagined  the  whole  thing! 
Pierrek  is  a  good  boy,  shy  and  silent,  and  afraid  of  petti 
coats.  You  can't  make  me  believe  that  he's  been  run 
ning  after  your  grandniece,  especially  if  your  grand- 
niece  lives  on  Enez-Pers,  twenty  miles  away!  It's  all 
nonsense!" 

Dame  Tinaik  heaved  a  pitying  sigh,  and  sat  back  in 
the  hard-seated  chair  with  that  composure  which  little 
Faik  found  so  exasperating.  "Well,  will  you  kindly  ex 
plain  to  me,  then,"  she  said,  urbanely,  but  in  a  voice 
which  caused  M.  Kornog  to  grit  his  strong  teeth,  "why 
he  manages  to  visit  this  out-of-the-way  island  once  a 
week  ...  on  Thursdays  generally?  Regularly  on  Thurs 
days,  too,  my  grandniece,  I  may  as  well  inform  you, 
goes  down  to  the  harbor  on  an  errand.  Why,  according 
to  the  private  information  I  have  obtained — good  and 
safe  information  you  may  take  it  from  me — he  loses  no 
occasion  to  meet  her,  as,  for  instance,  at  the  Pardon  of 
Romantek,  where  he  danced  with  her  the  whole  time. 
Why  Faik  herself,  never  very  easy  to  manage,  is  now  a 
veritable  little  faggot  of  thorns.  Can  you  still  assert 
that  I'm  inventing?" 

The  Cure's  face,  no  longer  angry,  had  become  suddenly 
grave.  He  looked  keenly  at  his  strange  informant.  "I 
do  not  believe  in  these  romantic  fallings  in  love  at  first 
sight,"  he  argued,  to  give  himself  time,  and  for  his  pains 
was  interrupted  by  a  derisive  laugh  closely  resembling 
the  triumphant  cackle  of  a  hen. 

"Much  you  know  about  love  at  first  sight  or  other- 

114 


GRAY    MIST 

wise,"  the  old  woman  said,  roughly.  "With  due  respect 
to  your  soutane,  Monsieur  le  Recteur,  you  should  be 
ashamed  to  speak  about  such  things.  But  since  you 
won't  believe  me,  I'll  just  tell  you  this.  Keep  your 
young  rooster  under  lock  and  key,  or  one  of  these  days 
he'll  get  himself  peppered  with  buckshot.  We  know 
how  to  look  after  our  young  girls  on  Enez-Pers;  we're 
not  easy  tempered!" 

"I  should  say  not!"  rejoined  her  victim,  wrathfully, 
"if  one  is  to  judge  by  what  one  sees!  Rest  easy,  Madame 
Karadek,  I'll  look  into  this  matter,  and  if  there's  any 
truth  in  it — any  truth  in  it,  mind  you — I'll  put  a  stop  to 
it.  You  may  take  my  word  for  that!" 

The  crabbed  dame  rose,  upright  as  a  bolt,  shook  out 
her  ponderous  skirts,  smoothed  down  the  basques  of  her 
richly -embroidered  velvet  -  bordered  corsage,  patted  the 
snowy  wings  of  her  lace  coiffe  with  a  familiar  little  move 
ment,  and  dropped  her  host  a  little  courtesy — all  of  a 
piece,  like  a  mechanical  doll. 

"That's  all  I  wanted  to  obtain!"  she  remarked,  with 
undiminished  calm,  and  with  a  patronizing  little  nod 
went  towards  the  door.  "All  I  wanted  to — insure!"  she 
said,  over  her  shoulder,  and  was  gone. 

M.  Kornog  watched  her  disappear  with  eyes  starting 
almost  out  of  their  sockets.  His  face  was  very  red,  and 
his  strong  hands  trembled  just  the  least  little  bit  as  they 
lay  on  the  arms  of  his  chair.  "The  old  petticoated 
devil!"  he  said,  aloud,  "I  wonder  if  what  she  said  is  true 
...  if  so,"  he  concluded,  sadly,  "poor  little  Lanaik  hasn't 
wept  all  her  tears  yet!" 

For  a  full  quarter-hour  he  sat  handkerchief  in  hand, 
mopping  his  brow  with  the  regularity  of  a  clock,  and 
in  the  intervals  staring  at  a  shaft  of  dancing  sunlight 
that  pencilled  zigzags  of  shadow  upon  the  polished  floor. 


GRAY    MIST 

Never  had  he  been  so  puzzled  to  find  a  way  out  of  a  dif 
ficulty!  Who  could  advise  him  in  this  sore  dilemma — 
and  then  suddenly  an  inspiration  made  him  call  in  sten 
torian  tones  that  rang  throughout  the  house:  "Mari- 
Gwezek,  come  here  at  once.  I  want  you!" 

The  Cure's  domestic  tyrant  appeared  so  suddenly, 
that  doubts  of  her  having  been  all  the  time  in  close 
proximity  to  the  door  would  have  amounted  to  an 
insult! 

"Well,"  she  said,  entering  with  a  face  almost  as  en 
gaging  as  a  prison  grating. 

The  Cure  saw  that  nothing  but  a  straight  blow  would 
answer,  and  in  accents  which  like  his  summons  just  now 
were  entirely  different  from  his  usual  mode  of  addressing 
his  Gorgon,  said,  curtly: 

"Now  what  do  you  think  of  what  you  just  heard  that 
woman  say?" 

Mari-Gwezek's  superb  assurance  collapsed  like  a  pricked 
bubble  .  .  .  nay,  she  even  had  the  grace  to  blush,  a  thing 
which  of  a  certainty  had  not  happened  for  fifty  years. 
She  was  a  clever  woman,  however,  who  never  lied  useless 
ly,  nor  excused  herself  when  she  could  help  it,  and  with 
instantly-recovered  spirit  she  in  her  turn  rounded  upon 
her  master. 

"There's  no  one  but  you,  Monsieur  Alanik" — she  had 
been  the  nurse  of  his  childhood,  and  in  moments  of  great 
excitement  sometimes  reverted  to  the  old  mode  of  ad 
dress — "  Yes,  no  one  but  you,  who  would  have  let  that 
impertinent  hag  go  on  as  she  did!  But,  then,  what  she 
said  is  true  enough!" 

"How  do  you  know?"  the  Cure  asked,  thunderstruck. 

"How  do  I  know?  Why,  you  poor  lamb  of  God, 
everybody  knows  it  here  excepting  you,  and  that  silly 
ninny  of  a  Lanaik!" 

116 


GRAY    MIST 

She  took  up  a  fine,  picturesque  attitude,  with  her  left 
hand  at  her  flat  waist,  and  scanned  him  pityingly. 

"What  is  to  be  done,  Mari-Gwezek?"  the  priest  asked, 
at  last,  for,  like  Moliere,  he  was  not  above  invoking  at 
times  his  old  servant's  shrewd  common-sense.  "I  don't 
think  anybody  can  stop  Pierrek  if  he  is  really  as  deeply 
in  love  as  she  said.  They'll  kill  him  some  day,  you'll 
see.  They're  awful  savages  on  Enez-Pers!" 

"The  Holy  Saints  forbid!"  she  piously  exclaimed. 
"No,  no!  Monsieur  le  Recteur.  They're  not  so  bad. 
Fraudeurs,1  of  course,  but  not  assassins." 

The  Cure  shook  his  head.  He  knew  that  this  beautiful 
azure  island  was  peopled  by  the  descendants  of  a  tur 
bulent  and  violent  race.  They  were  to-day,  as  of  yore, 
long-limbed,  slow-moving  men;  broad-shouldered,  brown- 
faced,  and  red  of  hair,  with  harsh  and  commanding  gray 
eyes  that  boded  no  good  to  their  enemies.  Could  stones 
but  talk — and  on  Enez-Pers  everything  naturally  was 
stone,  clean,  enduring,  and  unimpressionable  like  its  in 
habitants — what  a  grim  chorus  would  have  arisen,  re 
cording  deeds  of  incredible  valor  as  well  as  of  deep  horror 
done  in  cold  blood,  for  if  life  is  conducted  in  a  less  hurried 
fashion  there  than  anywhere  else  in  Brittany  —  where 
slowness  of  movement  and  of  speech  is  the  rule — this 
taciturnity  does  not  exclude  a  frequent  inclination  to  ex 
traordinary  violence! 

M.  Kornog,  looking  absently  at  his  housekeeper,  turned 
all  this  over  in  his  mind,  and  sighed.  He  was  a  man  es 
sentially  conscientious,  and  the  trust  placed  in  his  capable 
hands  by  Herve  Rouzik  seemed  no  light  thing  to  him. 

"Now,  don't  you  go  fretting  yourself,  Monsieur  le  Rec 
teur!"  Mari-Gwezek  said,  abruptly.  "I  would  send  for 

1  Smugglers. 
117 


GRAY    MIST 

Pierrek  if  I  were  you,  catechise  him  soundly,  and  then 
tell  him  that  he  is  supposed  to  be  in  love  with  the  lass's 
money  .  .  .  that'll  prick  his  pride,  or  else  my  name  ain't 
Mari-Gwezek." 

M.  Kornog  rose  to  his  feet.  "Sacred  name  of  thun 
der!"  he  cried,  "you  are  a  clever  woman,  and  I'm  glad  I 
consulted  you  .  .  .  and  to  think,"  he  concluded,  naively, 
"that  I  would  never  have  thought  of  that  ...  I  who 
should  know  the  human  mind  at  least  as  well  as  you  do! 
But,  then,  I  never  was  much  of  a  diplomat!" 

"A  what?"  the  old  woman  asked  with  a  frown.  "But 
never  mind,  whatever  it  is  I'm  sure  it  isn't  polite,  so  you 
needn't  repeat  it!  When  you  get  angry  and  swear  like  a 
trooper — a  thing  that's  disgraceful,  Monsieur  le  Recteur. 
for  a  Cure  to  do — I'm  always  sure  to  be  called  names.  I 
know  I'm  of  no  consequence  to  you,  not  the  slightest!"  and 
she  finished  her  tirade  with  an  expressive  gesture  strikingly 
describing  the  movement  of  chaff  blown  before  the  wind. 

At  this  point  the  Cure's  sense  of  humor  became  too 
much  for  him.  "Ah!  but  you  are  amusing — enormously 
amusing,"  he  said,  leaning  back  against  his  desk  to  laugh 
more  easily.  "One  never  knows  with  you  where  tragedy 
and  comedy  link  together." 

"Oh,  you  needn't  roar  like  that!  I'm  here  to  amuse 
you,  that's  all  I'm  good  for!  Still  you  are  getting  very- 
bad  manners,  Monsieur  le  Recteur,  when  you  make  fun 
of  a  woman  old  enough  to  be  your  mother,  with  a  good 
bit  left  over!" 

"My  good  Mari-Gwezek,"  M.  Kornog  said,  repentant 
ly,  the  mirth  wiped  away  from  his  kindly  face  as  with 
a  cloth,  "you  know  very  well  I  meant  no  harm!  You're 
the  best  and  the  most  difficult  proposition  ever  created; 
but  there!  there!"  he  concluded,  patting  her  bony  shoul 
der;  "say  that  you  forgive  me!" 

118 


GRAY    MIST 

"Leave  me  in  peace,  Monsieur  le  Recteur.  .  .  .  You  are 
nothing  but  a  cajoler  anyway,  and  it's  a  good  thing 
you're  a  Curd  after  all,  or  else  women  would  have  stood 
no  chance  with  you!  Go  along  now,  put  ,on  your  hat, 
and  meet  that  rascal  Pierrek  at  the  harbor;  the  boats 
must  be  coming  in  now,  and  that  will  give  you  your 
chance." 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

****** 

The  dull  pinkish  light  of  the  North,  seemingly  almost  a 
thing  of  vaporous  substance,  like  fog  or  mist,  floated 
widely  upon  the  colorless  sea.  Since  two  days  the  huge 
wan  disk  that  does  duty  for  a  sun  out  there,  and  some 
times  humbugs  you  into  the  belief  that  it  really  lives, 
had  seen  fit — in  shame,  perhaps — to  hide  its  pallid  face, 
and  as  the  breeze  had  fallen  completely  away,  it  was  a 
dead  world  indeed  in  the  midst  of  which  the  fishing-fleet 
from  far-off  Brittany  rocked  wearily  on  the  hardly  per 
ceptible  undulations  of  a  glassy  flood-tide.  There  must 
have  been  at  least  sixty  of  them,  all  courtesying  solemnly 
to  one  another,  when  each  seventh  heave  of  the  deep 
ocean  breath  shouldered  them  to  the  ends  of  their  re 
spective  cables.  Around  them  all  was  silence — not  an 
ordinary  sea-silence,  but  the  circum-polar  variety,  which 
is  a  cessation  of  all  sound,  pure  and  simple.  It  grips  one 
at  the  heart,  this  silence,  makes  one  loath  to  speak  above 
a  whisper,  and  weighs  upon  the  strongest  nerves,  as 
though  the  purlieus  of  Iceland  marched  upon  that  King 
dom  of  Death  whereof  the  old  Norse  legends  tell — lifeless 
regions  forgotten  by  God  upon  the  surface  of  His  sea. 

Astride  the  bowsprit  of  the  schooner  Sant  Kaour,1  from 
Kermarioker,  Pierrek  stared  forward  with  unseeing  eyes, 

1  Saint  Corentin, 
119 


GRAY    MIST 

for  he  was  in  the  midst  of  a  problem  that  absorbed  more 
of  his  attention  than  the  peculiarities  of  these  new  lati 
tudes  or  even  the  monotonous  chant  of  the  men  pulling 
cod  out  of  the  soundless  water  a  few  yards  away  from 
him. 

"Amour,  bonheur,  toute  ma  vie 

Prends  tout.  .  .  .  Mais  en  retour  je  veux 
Pour  moi  seul  ta  voix  si  jolie, 

Ta  douce  haleine  et  tes  yeux  bleus 
Amour,  bonheur,  toute  ma  vie, 
Tout  est  a  toi  si  tu  le  veux! 'I 

The  soft  cadence  of  the  last  lines  fell  without  any 
sonority  whatsoever — sonority  is  absent  from  the  Ice 
landic  atmosphere — but  strangely  enough  they  partly 
aroused  Pierrek: 

"Amour,  bonheur,  toute  ma  vie, 
Tout  est  a  toi  si  tu  le  veuxl'l 

The  words  were  French,  but  Pierrek  had  learned 
French  from  M.  Kornog,  and  the  wide-stretched  wings  of 
his  problem  folded  themselves  at  their  bidding  around 
one  word  that  encompassed  all  for  him — "Faik!" 

His  remembrance  of  the  past  months  was  almost  pho 
tographic  in  the  clearness  and  extreme  definition  of  its 
lights  and  shadows,  and  with  painful  precision  he  was 
seeing  unrolled  before  him  the  bristle  of  rocks  defend 
ing  the  Azure  Island  of  his  dream,  the  gray  wall  of  Tad 
Karadek's  little  domain,  harshly  profiled  far  up  against 
the  afternoon  sky,  and  Faik  herself  poised  like  a  sea- 
swallow  on  the  very  edge  of  the  falaise,  waving  him  an 
au  revoir  full  of  promise  and  despair.  The  disclosure  to 
Pierrek  of  the  sordid  interpretation  placed  upon  his  love 
had,  as  shrewd  Mari-Gwezek  prophesied,  been  the  knell 
of  all  his  present  hopes,  but  not  of  his  obstinate  courage, 


GRAY    MIST 

which  braced  itself  for  a  long  struggle  with  the  terrible 
grandaunt  and  her  obedient  son.  Yield,  Pierrek  never 
would;  it  was  not  in  his  nature  to  do  so,  especially  as 
long  as  he  knew  that  Faik  loved  him.  Of  this  she  had 
given  him  proof,  for  she  had  declared  that  were  she  to 
remain  forever  un wedded,  no  other  lad  than  Pierrek 
should  call  her  wife,  and,  utterly  indifferent  to  her  grand- 
aunt's  beratings,  had  plighted  her  troth  to  him — by  proxy, 
since  they  could  no  longer  meet,  Nedelek  Houarn  being 
the  messenger. 

"Tell  him,"  Faik  had  said,  "that  I  will  be  his!"  and 
Pierrek  knew  that  she  meant  it. 

Other  worries  had  overtaken  the  little  home  of  the 
Rouziks.  The  sardines  had  not  befriended  Kermarioker; 
the  herrings,  too,  had  almost  failed,  and  after  a  hard  win 
ter  the  young  chef  de  famille  had  at  last  won  his  point 
and  joined  the  Icelandic  fishing- fleet. 

Was  he  content  then?  Who  could  have  told?  True 
to  his  blood  he  uttered  no  complaint,  said  no  word  of  re 
gret,  even  at  the  hour  of  parting  from  all  he  loved  on 
earth.  When,  however,  he  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  the  emptiness  of  the  Icelandic  seas,  a  change,  if  a 
silent  one,  came  over  him,  caused  perhaps  more  by  that 
enervating  eternal  polar  daylight  than  by  the  hardships 
and  fatigues  of  the  dreary  campaign.  The  others  on 
board  the  Sant  Kaour  had  gone  through  it  all  before,  but 
he  was  new  at  the  trade,  and  felt  it  more  than  they  did. 
Happily  he  was  strong  among  the  strongest,  and  when 
after  twelve  consecutive  hours  of  hauling  and  pulling  at 
his  line  he  felt  every  inch  of  his  body  ache  with  fatigue, 
he  could  sleep  the  twenty-fathom  slumber  of  the  Ice 
lander,  and  be  ready  for  more  work  on  awakening. 
Raw  and  bleeding  knuckles,  painful  gurry  sores,  priva 
tions  of  many  sorts,  it  would  have  been  all  one  to  him, 


GRAY    MIST 

could  he  only  have  known  what  was  happening  to  Faik 
and  his  own  poor  little  mother,  alone  now  in  Kermarioker. 
That  was  the  pain  not  to  be  stilled  by  any  amount  of 
dreaming,  any  tenacity  of  hope.  And  hour  followed 
hour  in  paralyzing  monotony,  varied  only  here  and  there 
at  long  intervals  by  appalling  storms  that  scattered  the 
oppressive  silence  to  all  four  corners  of  heaven,  and 
served  to  brace  the  minds  and  bodies  of  the  Bretons — it 
sounded  so  much  like  home  to  them! 

At  last,  one  inexpressibly  dull  day  in  the  middle  of 
June,  a  day  of  what  they  call  there  "a  white  calm,"  be 
cause  nothing  moves  or  seems  so  much  as  to  breathe, 
and  both  sea  and  sky  are  muffled  in  layer  over  layer  of 
snowy  gauze,  through  which,  however,  one  can  see  with 
singular  clearness,  the  crew  of  the  Sant  Kaour  sighted  a 
slender  plume  of  smoke,  but  slightly  darker  than  the  sur 
rounding  haze,  growing  more  and  more  defined  with 
every  passing  minute. 

"The  government  cruiser  coming  on  its  rounds!"  was 
shouted  from  one  end  of  the  deck  to  the  other  in  glee 
unspeakable,  for  those  insignificant  volutes,  but  vaguely 
staining  as  yet  the  pallor  of  the  sky,  heralded  the  coming 
of  news  from  Brittany,  of  the  individual  letters  so  eagerly 
expected,  and  finally  of  those  few  shreds  of  home  atmos 
phere  which  the  cruiser  seemed  to  draw  after  it  across 
those  cold,  oily  waters. 

Soon  the  black  hull  of  the  official  visitor  gleamed  above 
the  nearer  ocean  folds,  and  like  homing  pigeons  all  the 
schooners  in  sight  made  for  this  slender  morsel  of  the 
distant  native  land.  Then  what  a  lowering  of  boats  and 
racing  for  the  gangway,  Pierrek  among  the  foremost,  pull 
ing  an  oar  that  bent  like  a  withe  against  the  backward 
sweep  of  the  reluctant  water!  And  a  little  later  as  he 
stood  upon  a  dazzling  deck  and  watched  the  official  hand 


GRAY    MIST 

groping  for  him  in  the  depths  of  a  long  canvas-sack,  how 
his  heart  did  jump  into  his  throat! 

Three  letters  fell  to  his  share,  and  recognizing  his 
mother's  writing,  with  shaking  fingers  he  broke  the 
clumsily-fastened  black  wafer  of  the  envelope — neglect 
ing,  hardly  seeing,  the  other  two  in  the  joy  of  the  mo 
ment! 

"Mv  SON  "  (wrote  Lanaik,  in  her  best  and  most  careful  hand), 
"I  am  as  well  as  can  be  in  your  absence,  and  hope  that  the  pres 
ent  will  find  you  likewise.  I  have  the  pleasure  to  tell  you  here 
that  our  poor  Monsieur  Recteur  has  sprained  his  left  foot  jump 
ing  over  a  wall  to  kill  an  enraged  dog  that  was  going  to  devour 
your  little  cousin  Vira  Gweled;  also  that  the  measles  are  raging 
here  since  a  month,  several  little  ones  having  died  of  it;  the  weather 
is  good  and  there  are  quite  a  good  many  sardines,  Ne"del6k  Houarn 
brought  eight  thousand  with  the  Stereden  yesterday.  I  languish  to 
think  that  you  are  not  here  to  command  the  boat  and  earn  your 
share  instead  of  him.  That  is  all  I  have  to  announce  for  the  mo 
ment,  excepting  that  a  sail-maker  from  Enez-Pers  brought  the 
news  of  old  Tinaik  Karadek's  sudden  death,  she  having  fallen 
from  the  loft  where  she  was  watching  the  men  store  the  hay,  and 
unhooked  her  heart1  in  the  fall.  So  this  is  all  for  the  present,  and 

"I  am  for  life  and  eternity 

"Your  loving  mother 

"WIDOW  ROUZIK." 

"  Mari  -  Gwezek  and  myself,  with  six  others,  are  making  a 
novena  at  the  Chapel  of  Notre  Dame  de  Beaj  -  Vad 2  for  your 
speedy  return,  my  son,  in  good  health  of  soul  and  body." 

Pierrek  read  the  letter  through  to  the  end,  then  with 
this  message  of  reawakened  hope  in  his  hand  stood  for  a 
moment  absolutely  still,  the  color  coming  and  going  in 
his  face  with  every  beat  of  his  heart.  Old  Tinaik  dead 
.  .  .  that  meant  the  path  that  led  to  Faik  cleared  of  its 
greatest  obstacle  —  perhaps  of  its  only  one,  for  Tad 
Karadek,  no  longer  upheld  by  his  mother,  would  doubt- 

1  Literal  translation  of  the  Breton  expression. 

2  Bon  voyage. 

9  "3 


GRAY    MIST 

less  give  way,  and  suddenly  a  flood  of  mad  joy  rushed 
through  the  lad,  healing  all  his  wounds! 

Forgotten  were  the  days  and  nights  of  toil ;  forgotten 
the  enervating,  dead,  rose-tinted  nights  and  mournful, 
white-shrouded  days  of  the  Icelandic  seas;  forgotten  also 
the  everlasting  procession  of  goggle-eyed  cods  gasping 
and  writhing  on  the  slimy  deck,  the  back-breaking  labor, 
the  hundreds  of  miles  of  weary  sailing  to  reach  home 
again — all  was  forgotten  at  one  stroke!  And  when  at 
last  he  remembered  the  other  two  letters  which  he  had 
barely  glanced  at,  more  happiness  was  in  store  for  him, 
since  one  proved  to  be  from  his  beloved  patron,  M.  Kornog 
— the  other  from  Faik! 


CHAPTER  IX 

Then  as  the  swift  wheels  of  departing  day 
Clouded  the  ocean-rim  with  dust  of  gold, 

Sail  after  crimson  sail  from  far  away 

Upon  that  lucent  brightness  wide  unrolled, 
Came  flying,  and  the  sea-wind  fresh  and  cold 

Bore  sounds  across  the  waters  wondrous  clear, 
Outcries  and  jests,  the  catch  a  seaman  trolled, 

And  sailor  laughter  that  was  good  to  hear 

For  one  who  watched  and  waited  on  the  harbor  pier. 

M.  M. 

AT  six  o'clock  of  a  glorious  autumn  afternoon — it  was 
the  Nativity  of  the  Blessed  Virgin — a  group  of  people 
stood  massed  upon  the  jetty  of  Kermarioker,  looking 
excitedly  seaward.  The  view  was  particularly  beauti 
ful  at  this  hour  and  in  such  golden  weather,  for  with  the 
slowly  declining  sun  the  cliffs  were  gradually  becoming 
enmeshed  in  a  web  of  ruddy  light  cast  delicately  over 
clefts  of  deepening  shadow,  dark  and  soft  like  the  glowing 
heart  of  a  Russian  amethyst.  High  in  the  zenith  floated 
a  few  delicately  flushed  wisps  of  cloud,  and  the  ocean  it 
self,  seen  between  the  two  great  peaky  headlands  like  a 
broad  stretch  of  finely  shirred  satin,  rippled  with  re 
flected  brightness. 

Moment  by  moment  the  delicacy  of  tint  grew  greater, 
the  precision  of  outline  clearer,  as  shine  and  shade  for 
sook  their  sharper  extremes  in  order  to  blend  the  more 
harmoniously,  until  to  the  watching  eye  distance  and 
substance  were  both  lost  in  a  cloudlike  vision  of  floating 


GRAY    MIST 

color.  Suddenly  from  behind  the  farthest  of  the  two 
giants  five  or  six  quickly -advancing  Iceland  schooners, 
all  heading  towards  the  quay,  all  running  in  under  full 
press  of  sail  before  a  breeze  that  laughed  its  way  gayly 
from  the  distant  lilac  of  the  horizon,  flung  greeting  to 
the  land  in  a  flood  of  melody.  From  all  those  young 
throats  the  Hymn  of  St.  Herve  of  Kermarioker  was 
wafted  shoreward,  Le  Chant  du  Retour,  as  they  call  it 
there,  and  rhythmically  the  slender  black  hulls,  a  little 
faded  and  stained  by  travel,  seemed  to  swing  on,  the  tall, 
tapering  masts  to  nod  in  salutation  as  they  approached, 
caressed  by  the  rosy  luminance  of  sky  and  sea. 

There  on  the  little  granite  quay  they  knew  how  eagerly 
they  were  expected  by  mothers  and  wives  and  fiancees, 
by  dear  friends  old  and  young,  all  waiting  to  give  them 
welcome,  and  they  sang  with  all  their  might,  as  though 
to  add  the  strength  of  their  vigorous  lungs  to  that  of  the 
swift  sea -breath,  humming  all  too  faintly  for  their  im 
patience  in  the  rigging  above  their  bared  heads.  They 
brought  back,  each  and  every  one,  his  secret  record  of 
personal  valor,  of  self-sacrifice,  cheerful  endurance,  and 
unfailing  industry,  with  here  and  there  a  sin  or  two  that 
Monsieur  le  Recteur  would  wipe  out  to-morrow  and  bury 
in  absolution,  the  brightness  of  his  comprehension  and 
leniency  reflecting  a  long  afterglow  which  would  endure 
even  through  the  wild  carousals  following  the  return. 

Leading  the  procession  of  graceful  vessels,  each  with 
a  heavy  mass  of  shadow  beneath  her  forefoot,  a  wake  of 
quivering  gold  behind,  came  the  Sant  Kaour,  a  man  at 
the  tiller  to  whom  every  rock,  every  ripple  of  this  dan 
gerous  Bay  of  Kermario  was  as  familiar  as  the  inside  of 
his  pockets,  guiding  her  firmly  and  unhesitatingly  close 
around  the  wicked  reefs  that  thrust  their  black  muzzles 
just  a  few  inches  above  high-water  mark;  the  elegant 

126 


GRAY    MIST 

bows  gliding  onward  with  scarcely  a  sound,  the  big 
anchor  already  swinging  in  readiness  over-side. 

Slowly  the  head-boat  edged  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
stout  granite  mole,  her  sails  sliding  down  as  if  by  magic 
to  the  accompaniment  of  clear-voiced  orders  and  a  cheer 
ful  noise  of  blocks  and  tackles.  A  ringing  shout  went  up 
from  the  jostling  crowd,  and  Pierrek,  unable  to  restrain 
his  impatience  any  longer,  clearing  at  one  bound  the 
narrow  interval  between  deck  and  jetty,  found  himself 
in  his  mother's  arms. 

The  corn-flower  blue  eyes  of  the  young  widow  had 
acquired  an  intensified  depth  of  color  and  expression,  it 
seemed  to  him,  when  he  at  last  looked  at  her,  owing,  it 
might  be,  to  the  eternal  straining  seaward  for  the  first 
glimpse  of  the  beloved  child's  return.  Her  sweet,  narrow 
face  too  was  drawn,  and  fine  lines  of  anxiety  had  graven 
themselves  deeply  enough  there  never  to  be  quite  effaced 
again.  Pierrek  was  no  longer  so  cloudlessly  delighted. 
And  she?  Again  and  again  she  gazed  at  the  superbly 
tall,  broad-shouldered  form  of  her  son,  her  sole  protector 
and  main-stay  now,  and  saw  that  he  was  going  to  be  a 
man  after  her  own  hungry  heart.  Holding  each  other 
by  the  little  finger  in  the  time-honored  Breton  way — 
par  le  petit  doigt  —  they  wandered  up  the  village  road, 
deserted  just  now,  for  all  the  people  had  remained  clus 
tered  near  the  anchoring  boats.  Evening  was  falling, 
and  in  the  cool  tang  of  the  breeze  a  hint  of  slowly  shorten 
ing  days  was  to  be  felt.  In  the  ditches,  too,  hundreds  of 
sad-faced,  almost  black  scabiosse — those  typical  flowers 
of  autumn  that  we  call  Veuves  1  in  Brittany  —  nodded 
sleepily  upon  their  tremulous,  threadlike  stems.  The 
only  sounds  were  the  buzzing  twang  of  swift  cockchafers 

1  Widows. 
127 


GRAY    MIST 

cutting  the  salt-impregnated  air,  in  haste  to  reach  home, 
no  doubt,  before  darkness  overtook  them,  and  far  away 
on  the  slope,  crowned  by  M.  Kornog's  presbytery,  the 
melancholy  hou — hou — hou — hou  of  a  barn-owl,  calling  to 
the  moon  to  hurry  up,  and  be  quick  about  it. 


"Pe  pa  ve  ar  bleun  er  balann, 
Pe  pa  ve  ar  bleun  el  lann, 
A  garez  muia  da  Vamnt  ?"-. l 


A  very  old  woman,  sitting  within  the  door  of  a  tiny 
house,  was  singing  as  she  rocked  her  last-born  great 
grandchild  on  her  knees.  Mother  and  son  smiled  as  they 
passed  and  looked  at  each  other  from  the  corner  of  the 
eye  before  turning  into  their  own  lane,  at  the  end  of 
which  Lanaik's  garden,  in  all  its  late-summer  glory,  was 
wafting  towards  them  the  most  exquisite  of  fragrant 
welcomes. 

How  different  was  this  happy  day  from  the  gray  April 
morning  when  he  had  said  good-bye  to  his  home  nearly 
six  months  ago!  He  still  seemed  to  hear  the  drip-drip 
of  a  fine,  powdery  rain  gliding  along  the  thatch,  as  he 
and  Lanaik  shut  and  locked  the  door  before  wending 
their  heavy-hearted  way  to  the  harbor.  There,  too,  noth 
ing  but  tears  had  greeted  them,  human  tears  and  rain 
tears  commingling  in  one  great  desolation.  Old  grand 
mothers,  already  touched  by  the  finger  of  death,  bidding 
mayhap  an  eternal  good-bye  to  proud  sailor  grandsons 
standing  erect  and  a  little  shyly  close  to  them.  Black- 
clad  widowed  mothers  like  his  own  clinging  in  a  last  and 
desperate  embrace  to  their  Benjamins,  lovers  shame- 

1  Is  it  when  the  broom  is  in  bloom 
Or  when  it  is  the  furze, 
That  best  you  love  your  mother? 
128 


GRAY    MIST 

facedly  murmuring  a  tender  vow,  a  whispered  kendvo1 
in  some  secluded  corner  of  the  wharf,  and  lastly  a  hand 
ful  of  recalcitrant  laggards  who  were  being  lugged  to 
their  boats  bound  hand  and  foot  and  uttering  hoarse 
curses  and  imprecations,  to  be  finally  thrown  with  scant 
ceremony  a  fcnid  de  Cale — in  the  hold — until  they  re 
covered  their  temporarily  submerged  reason  and  their 
fidelity  to  signed  engagements.  Two  by  two  the  tall- 
masted  schooners  had  been  warped  out  into  the  bay,  and 
for  a  long  time  he  had  watched  the  slight  figure  of  his 
mother  hurrying  along  the  coast  path  to  the  top  of  Cape 
Kermario,  from  whence  she  could  see  the  last  of  this  cruel 
Sant  Kaour  that  was  robbing  her  of  her  boy. 

The  Holy  Saints  be  praised,  all  this  was  past  now,  per 
haps  never  to  return!  —  and  those  two  reunited  beings 
who  so  dearly  loved  each  other  remained  for  a  few  mo 
ments  before  entering  their  little  home  on  the  extreme 
end  of  the  point  upon  which  it  stood,  inhaling  the  in 
effably  pure  air  that  brushed  across  the  flowering  gorse, 
and  listening  to  the  caressing  hum  of  the  tiny  wavelets — 
baby  waves,  innocent  and  merry — playing  amid  the  grim 
rocks  that  chequered  the  lower  beach,  as  though  they 
never  again  could  swell  mountain  high  in  those  blind 
furies  that  destroy  and  murder  wantonly. 

###**#* 

^s  -\i  >!•  >H  H5  V 

Next  morning  the  warm  September  sun,  true  to  the 
promises  of  his  dazzling  exit  of  the  preceding  evening, 
fell  like  finely-sifted  gold  upon  a  level  and  shining  sea. 
A  wisp  of  mist  still  hung  here  and  there  beneath  the 
myrtles  and  laurels  of  Faik's  flowery  domain — just  enough 
of  it  to  veil  and  protect  the  tenderer  fronds  of  many  a 

*  Au  revolt. 
129 


GRAY    MIST 

lacelike  fern.  Birds  flitted  and  chuckled  upon  the  grass, 
and  heavy  with  fluffy  masses  of  almond-scented  stars  the 
far-spreading  clematis  above  the  porch  seemed  to  have 
rounded  itself  into  a  huge  bridal  garland  scintillating 
with  countless  liquid  gems. 

Erect,  trim,  and  graceful,  Faik  herself  was  just  leaving 
the  dairy  over  which  she  now  ruled  alone,  when  Tad 
Karadek  came  quietly  towards  her  down  the  little  grassy 
path  leading  from  the  mill.  He  was  quite  close  to  her 
before  she  heard  his  slow  step,  and  she  turned  sharply 
with  a  little  start. 

"I  thought  you  had  gone  down  to  the  village!"  she 
said.  He  looked  at  her  a  moment  without  speaking,  for 
at  sight  of  her  happy  face  the  sermon  he  had  prepared 
in  his  mind  had  suddenly  vanished,  leaving  only  a  blank, 
utter  and  disconcerting,  in  its  stead.  And  this  was  the 
Conan1  of  the  Karadeks,  a  c'hlan2  famed  far  and  wide  for 
the  rigidity  with  which  it  was  commanded!  How  humil 
iating  for  the  old  man  to  realize  that  he  who  was  dreaded 
and  reverenced  by  a  whole  country-side,  whom  many 
families  looked  upon  as  their  head  and  sole  counsellor, 
was  thus  thrown  off  his  balance  by  the  smile  of  a  little 
girl,  not — as  he  himself  expressed  it — heavier  than  two 
sous'  worth  of  butter!  But  he  was  quick  to  recover 
himself. 

"So,"  he  said  at  last,  with  a  momentary  twinkle  in  his 
grave  eyes,  "you  are  singing  this  morning?"  While 
awaiting  her  coming  he  had  from  behind  the  neighboring 
hedge  heard  the  first  bars  of  a  love-song  trilling  out  of 
the  wide-open  dairy  windows,  and  he  could  not  withstand 
the  temptation  to  bring  that  pretty,  faint  blush  of  hers 

» Chief. 

2  Clan.  The  Bretons  have  a  clan  system  similar  though  not 
exactly  corresponding  to  that  of  the  Scottish  Celts. 

130 


GRAY    MIST 

to  the  surface!  She  turned  away  and  looked  through  a 
screen  of  tall  ribbon-reeds  towards  her  garden,  a  little 
vexed,  perhaps,  but  ready  to  laugh,  too,  on  the  slightest 
provocation — for  was  not  this  September,  the  month  that 
was  to  bring  her  already  belated  lover  home?  Beneath 
her  uncle's  mocking  gaze  she  was,  however,  becoming 
amusingly  less,  her  small  brown  hands  fidgeting  with  a 
long  grass  plume  which  she  had  bent  towards  her,  and 
the  soft  color  fluctuating  in  her  rounded  cheeks.  She 
was  a  brave  little  girl  who  for  over  a  year  had  played  a 
singularly  dangerous  game  with  unwearied  obstinacy, 
for,  as  M.  Kornog  had  once  very  truthfully  told  his  iras 
cible  housekeeper,  the  men  of  Enez-Pers  did  not  joke 
where  their  womankind  were  concerned. 

"Come,"  Tad  Karadek  said,  vainly  seeking  for  his 
carefully-garnered  but  sadly-truant  severity,  "let  us  sit 
down  quietly  together  on  this  bench,"  and  he  led  the  way 
to  a  moss-grown  stone  settle  of  great  antiquity  that  had 
stood  for  many  years  immediately  within  the  curious  al 
cove  formed  by  a  vine-clad  break  in  the  wall  that  doubt 
less  took  the  place  of  some  collapsed  embrasure.  Be 
fore  them,  in  a  framework  of  exquisite  autumnal  foliage, 
lay  a  broad  panorama  of  extravagantly-tinted  rocks  and 
gleaming  sea.  Far  away,  cincturing  the  hazy  main-land, 
crag  after  crag  of  rugged  cliff  melted  into  a  distance  where 
the  two  great  peaks  of  Kermario  stood  out  majestically 
against  the  sky,  and  Faik  gazed  for  a  moment  lovingly 
at  them,  shimmering  all  pink  and  cloudlike  in  the  soft 
morning  light. 

Tad  Karadek  was  carefully  pressing  down  the  tobacco 
in  his  little  clay  pipe — brule-gueule  we  call  them  there, 
inelegantly  but  graphically — and  seemed  in  no  particular 
hurry  to  open  the  conversation  he  had  himself  sought. 

"You  are  on  the  eve,  Faik,"  he  said,  after  a  long  pause, 


GRAY    MIST 

"of  committing  a  great  folly."  He  jerked  his  thumb  over 
his  left  shoulder  in  the  direction  of  Kermarioker,  and  con 
tinued:  "You  have  given  your  heart  to  a  lad  who,  al 
though  there's  nothing  serious  to  say  against  him,  is  not 
of  your  people,  who  is  too  young  to  make  a  good  husband, 
and  who  has  no  money." 

Faik  heard,  gazing  listlessly  across  the  bay  with  dreamy 
eyes,  as  though  it  was  scarcely  worth  while  to  assert  once 
more  her  unshakable  resolution,  and,  after  one  glance  at 
her  baffling  little  face,  her  uncle  paused  again,  lighted  his 
pipe  with  a  spluttering  sulphur -match,  and  slowly  re 
sumed: 

"You  do  not  believe  what  I  say,  my  girl,  because  I 
am  old  and  you  are  young.  It  is  natural  that  you  should 
think  I  don't  know  what  I'm  talking  about,  but  there 
you  are  wrong,  for  I  do  know.  What  will  be  the  result 
of  a  marriage  between  you  and  Pierrek  Rouzik?  Will 
you  go  and  live  in  his  house  as  a  poor  fisherman's  wife, 
you  who  have  lorded  it  here  over  half  a  dozen  men  and 
maids  always  ready  to  do  your  bidding,  or  will  you  ask 
him  to  give  up  his  metier  and  .  .  .  his  mother  ...  to  come 
and  share  your  home?  They  are  proud,  those  Rouziks, 
and  I  doubt  if  he  would  accept  that.  I  am  old,  Faik, 
and  you  are  my  only  affection  on  earth.  Do  you  really 
and  truly  want  to  forsake  me  for  a  gars  with  whom  you 
have  not  spoken  a  dozen  times  in  your  life?"  There  was 
an  odd  break  in  the  miller's  voice,  and  Faik's  eyes  sud 
denly  filled  with  tears. 

"Oh!  Uncle  Gwion!"  she  pleaded,  turning  quickly 
towards  him.  "Don't  speak  like  that!  I  can't  bear  it. 
You  know  that  I  love  you  dearly,  and  that  it  would  break 
my  heart  to  leave  you,  but ..."  She  stopped  as  abruptly 
as  she  had  begun  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"Yes — but!  There's  always  something  like  that  to 

132 


GRAY    MIST 

destroy  the  hopes  of  old  people,"  Tad  Karadek  rejoined, 
sadly.  "I,  for  instance,  had  hoped  that  you  would 
marry  your  cousin  Klaoda,1  a  proper  man  that  one,  well 
established  on  Enez-Pers,  with  money  in  the  bahut,  and 
a  good  farm  to  bring  his  wife  to." 

Faik  looked  up  and  shook  her  contemptuous  little 
head.  "I  would  never,  never  marry  Klaoda!  He  drinks!" 
she  said,  curtly. 

The  old  man  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Drinks?  Yes, 
a  little  perhaps.  We  all  drink  more  or  less  in  Brittany." 

"Not  Pierrek!"  she  interrupted,  indignantly. 

"Not  yet,"  the  miller  remarked,  cynically  enough, 
"but  wait  until  you  see  him  after  a  heavy  catch,  or  re 
turning  from  a  Pardon.  He  has  got  a  pair  of  eyes  that 
seem  to  me  pretty  merciless — they  harden  too  quickly — 
and  when  I  spoke  to  him  the  day  he  sneaked  over  here 
to  bid  you  good-bye  ..." 

"You  ordered  him  off  the  island!  Oh!  Uncle  Gwion, 
how  could  you!"  And  her  own  changeable  eyes  gave 
him  a  steel-like  flash  more  cutting  than  any  dark  orbs 
might  have  achieved. 

The  miller  shuffled  uneasily  on  the  mossy  bench. 
"Your  grandaunt  wished  it!"  he  said,  deprecatingly. 
"Besides,  he  had  no  business  here." 

"Yes  he  had,"  she  retorted,  peremptorily,  "since  .  .  . 
since  I  love  him!"  The  words  were  bravely,  almost  defi 
antly,  said.  This  girl  would  decidedly  remain  impossible 
to  bend. 

"Listen  to  me,  Faik!"  Tad  Karadek  said,  with  a  sud 
den  touch  of  her  own  imperious  air.  "This  is  not  the 
first  time  that  I  have  argued  all  this  with  you — but  it 
will  be  the  last,  that  I  swear.  I  am  talking  for  the  sake 

1  Claude. 

133 


GRAY    MIST 

of  your  dead  parents — God  rest  their  souls"  (he  crossed 
himself  devoutly) — "  especially  for  your  dear  mother,  who 
went  to  join  the  angels  confiding  you  to  my  care  with 
her  last  breath.  She  was  a  woman  of  many  sorrows,  for 
she  lost  four  children  and  her  man  before  she  was  thirty, 
and  one  thing  she  feared  above  all  others  was  that  you 
should  marry  a  man  who  followed  the  sea — you,  her  pet 
lamb,  the  last  of  all!"  He  cleared  his  throat  and  looked 
angrily  at  the  pulsing  ocean,  so  lovely  and  harmless  of 
aspect  this  peerless  September  morning.  Faik  had  drawn 
close  to  him,  and  here  a  timid  little  brown  hand  was 
hesitatingly  laid  on  his  knee. 

"But,  Uncle,  what  am  I  to  do  ...  when  I  ...  love 
him?"  she  asked,  tremulously. 

"To  be  sure!  To  be  sure!"  he  said,  regretfully.  "You 
love  him,  and  when  a  Bretonne  does  that  it's  for  life! 
But  your  mother,  too,  loved  a  fisher-lad,  and  her  heart 
broke  with  anxiety  and  sorrow.  She  married  against  our 
wishes,  although  he  at  least  was  a  Karadek  like  ourselves 
— not  that  consent  was  refused  at  the  last,  for  that  is 
not  a  thing  she  would  have  risked,  but  she  waited  eight 
years  for  him,  and  when  her  parents,  wearied  out,  yielded, 
they  warned  her  she  would  have  no  luck.  My  mother, 
her  father's  sister,  prophesied  it  all  ...  ah!  yes,  prophe 
sied  it  all!" 

He  shook  his  head  forebodingly,  and  Faik  shivered, 
for  her  great-aunt's  prophecies  had  mostly  had  a  dread 
ful  knack  of  coming  true,  and  she  herself  had  had  a  taste 
of  them. 

"Remember,  Faik,  that  I  " — he  tapped  himself  on  the 
chest  with  the  stem  of  his  pipe — "will  not  fight  against 
you  and  him  any  longer.  When  my  mother  lived  I  did 
so  because  she  made  me,  but  life  is  too  short  for  such 
struggles ;  nor  will  I  let  anxiety  spoil  my  appetite  for  fear 


GRAY    MIST 

of  the  troubles  that  must  come  to  us  from  all  this!"  He 
looked  round  the  horizon  with  an  Islander's  far-seeing 
gaze.  "And  trouble  will  come:  I  feel  it  and  know  it!" 
he  concluded,  solemnly,  impressively. 

"Uncle  Gwion!"  gasped  Faik,  in  real  terror.  "Uncle 
Gwion!" 

"When  children  go  counter  to  the  desires  of  their 
elders  there  is  always  trouble — always!"  the  old  man 
muttered.  "But  let  him  beware,  if  you  take  him,  for 
whether  he  stays  with  you  here,  or  you  with  him  there 
beyond,  if  he  should  make  you  shed  one  tear — if  he  dares 
ever  to  bring  unhappiness  upon  you — I  will  kill  him — 
yes  "  (the  miller  rose  to  his  feet),  "kill  him  like  a  dog  and 
be  glad  of  the  job,  and  curse  him  dead,  so  that  no  salva 
tion  ever  comes  to  him  here  or  hereafter!" 

Faik,  scared  for  once  to  the  core  of  her  soul,  had  raised 
a  white,  imploring  face  to  his,  watching  him  with  great, 
wretched  eyes,  but  as  the  last  words  fell  from  his  thin, 
grim  lips,  she  started  up  like  one  electrified,  and  stood 
before  him,  breathing  fast.  Her  whole  passionate  little 
being  was  quivering  with  fury,  and  she  drew  herself  up 
superbly. 

"Don't  say  any  more,  Uncle  Gwion!"  she  cried,  with 
withering  scorn.  "You  can't  hurt  him  by  your  threats, 
and  it's  cowardly  to  threaten  an  absent  man!"  Her  clear 
young  voice  rang  out  boldly,  like  a  silver  flute:  "I  love 
him!  I  love  him,  I  tell  you!  and  he — ah!  God,  he  loves 
me!  Not  my  money,  as  great-aunt  once  told  me!"  The 
brilliant  rays  of  the  morning  sun  flashed  strongly  on  her 
lovely  flushed  face  and  slender,  black-robed  figure,  where 
she  swayed  excitedly,  the  silken  embroideries  of  her 
corsage  sparkling  in  little  spurts  of  flame,  her  white 
coiffe  fluttering  like  wings.  Tad  Kanidek  stared  at  her 
in  amazement,  and  felt  singularly  ill  at  ease. 


GRAY    MIST 

"And  don't  let  any  one  of  the  clan  play  him  any 
tricks!"  she  continued.  "You  are  the  Chief.  You  will 
be  obeyed  if  you  bid  them  let  him  alone.  I  would  rather 
die — yes,  die  of  shame — than  put  him  on  his  guard 
against  my  own  people,  and  if  I  did — I  know  him — he'd 
come  all  the  quicker.  That's  the  kind  of  gars  he  is!  I 
didn't  mean  to  talk  like  this  to  you,  Uncle  Gwion,  but 
you  would  make  a  blessed  Saint  lose  patience  here  on 
Enez-Pers,  with  all  your  talk  about  nobody  being  worthy 
of  us,  as  if  that  were  true.  Anyhow,  I'll  not  marry  him 
against  your  will,  as  you  very  well  know;  not  now,  since 
I  could  not,  nor  later  when  the  law  gives  me  the  right, 
but  if  you  or  any  other  does  him  a  hurt  by  word  or  deed, 
I'll  jump  off  the  falaise  onto  the  rocks!  That's  all  I 
have  to  say!" 

She  stopped,  struggling  painfully  for  breath,  shudder 
ing  palpably,  and  then  all  of  a  sudden  broke  into  wild, 
long-drawn  sobs  that  shook  her  from  head  to  foot. 

For  two  or  three  minutes  the  miller  watched  her  mutely; 
then  he  bent  forward,  and,  putting  his  arm  around  her, 
drew  her  firmly  towards  him. 

"Hush,  my  little  daughter,  hush!"  he  murmured,  hold 
ing  her  tightly  clasped.  "Forgive  your  old  uncle  for 
trying  to  make  you  happy  in  his  own  way!  And  don't 
be  afraid,  the  Rouziks  always  could  take  care  of  them 
selves — besides  which — well,  we  of  Enez-Pers  are  not  as 
heathenish  and  savage  as  you  think!"  He  laughed  bit 
terly.  "A  love  like  yours  makes  him  sacred,  Faik  Kara'- 
dek,  for  nobody  will  dare  to  touch  Conan  Karadek's 
nephew!" 


CHAPTER  X 

My  love  abideth  where  the  waves  bear  up  the  bending  skies, 
My  love  upon  her  island-cliffs  looks  down  with  straining  eyes 
Where  shrunk  and  small  the  breakers  crawl,  and  driving  stoutly 

through, 
My  red  sail  skirts  the  boiling  surge  that  hideth  Ar-Men-Du. 

My  love  is  whiter  than  the  foam  that  flasheth  on  the  brine, 
My  love  is  sweeter  than  the  breath  blown  from  the  roaring  pine, 
Sweet  as  the  lilies  of  Ker-Ys  that  flower  'neath  the  sea, 
O  St.  Henre",  speed  on  the  day  that  weds  my  love  and  me! 

Her  heart  is  deeper  than  the  plunge  beneath  the  sheer  falaise, 
Her  eyes  are  darker  than  the  shades  that  wrinkle  at  its  base, 
She's  lissome  as  the  gray  gull's  wing,  she's  brighter  than  the 

spray, 
O  St.  Kaour — O  swift  and  sure  speed  on  my  wedding-day! 

M.  M. 

THE  beautiful  October  morning — the  morning  of  his 
wedding-day — had  but  just  dawned  amid  a  soft  chatoy- 
ancy  of  color  that  seemed  to  cast  a  hush  of  wonder  over 
the  awakening  world,  when  Pierrek  opened  the  door  of 
his  mother's  house. 

There  had  been  rain  the  night  before,  and  all  the  at 
mosphere  was  fragrant  with  an  energetic  mixture  of  ooz 
ing  resin  and  crushed  ferns — a  smell  peculiar  to  the  pine- 
clad  slopes  of  the  valley  of  Kermario — and  deeply  did 
Pierrek  breathe  it  in  as  he  turned  into  that  narrow  canon 
between  the  shoreward  ridges  of  the  peaks  on  his  way  to 
the  presbytery. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  was  running  by  a  little -used 

137 


GRAY    MIST 

track,  shorter  than  the  regular  path,  up  slopes  where 
furze  and  whin  bloomed  amicably  side  by  side  in  golden 
luxuriance,  slanting  gradually  away  into  a  hazy,  mist- 
veiled  distance,  unbroken,  save  by  a  group  of  pines  here 
and  there,  or  some  straight-stemmed  young  oak  clad  in 
the  brilliant  livery  of  autumn.  Far  overhead  the  larks 
sent  down  faint  sprinklings  of  melody,  while  amid  the 
tangle  of  verdure  creeping  beneath  the  boughs  of  the 
woods  that  he  entered  presently,  wrens  and  goldfinches, 
robin  redbreasts  and  chardonnerets  added  their  delicate 
notes  to  the  low- voiced  orchestra  of  Silence. 

Pierrek  hurried  on  with  long,  swinging  strides,  his 
heart  singing  within  his  breast  loudest  of  all,  and,  jump 
ing  a  pieds  joints  over  the  last  stile,  found  himself  at  the 
side  gate  of  the  Recteur's  garden.  Instantly  the  scents 
of  a  thousand  old-fashioned  flowers  greeted  him,  and  he 
paused  instinctively  to  enjoy  this  new  feast  before  push 
ing  open  the  nasturtium-garlanded  lattice.  Only  a  few 
yards  away,  breviary  in  hand,  was  the  Cure.  Silently 
Pierrek  stood  beneath  the  shade  of  a  veteran  laurel  and 
watched  his  patron  as  he  moved  slowly  along,  his  eyes 
on  the  book  he  held,  his  lips  moving  as  he  read.  He  had 
not  heard  the  lad's  footsteps  upon  the  mossy  border  of 
the  path,  but  suddenly  becoming  aware  that  there  was 
some  one  near,  he  raised  his  eyes  and  smiled. 

"So  you  have  come  to  fetch  me,  Moussa-illon?"  he  said, 
unconsciously  using  the  fond  old  appellation,  and  pocket 
ing  his  rusty  breviary.  "I  am  ready — never  so  ready  as 
to-day!" 

A  slender  ribbon  of  pink  copper  had  begun  to  outline 
the  still  sombre  ridges  of  the  frowning  cliffs — those  cliffs 
of  Kermario  that  seem  so  fitly  to  embody  the  undying 
and  tenacious  Faiths  of  Arm6r — and  just  as  he  spoke  the 
sun  suddenly  cleared  the  top  of  the  farthest  and  tallest 

138 


GRAY    MIST 

peak,  constellating  the  whole  table-land  with  myriads  of 
glittering  gems. 

"Weather  fit  for  a  wedding-day!"  the  priest  continued, 
joyfully  scanning  the  marvellous  horizon,  and  consulting 
with  a  sailor's  eye  those  transparent  shadows  of  green 
sapphire — generally  betokening  a  prolonged  calm — that 
swayed  to  and  fro  at  the  foot  of  the  cliffs  with  every  un 
dulation  of  the  deep-breathing  ground-swell. 

Curiously  enough,  at  the  point  where  they  now  stood, 
on  the  very  edge  of  the  cliff  terrace  that  gave  standing- 
room  to  church  and  presbytery,  the  smell  of  pine  and 
fern  so  predominant  in  the  valley  at  their  feet— nay,  even 
the  breath  of  the  garden — was  being  swiftly  thrust  aside 
by  a  wonderful  fragrance,  so  penetrating,  so  rare  and  un 
usual,  that  they  looked  questioningly  at  each  other. 

"Ah!"  Pierrek  said,  quickly,  pointing  downward,  "that 
comes  from  the  crests  of  the  little  waves  when  they 
break  down  there.  It's  from  the  drowned  gardens  of 
Ker-Ys  l — why,  yes,  to-day  is  St.  Grallon's  fete,  is  it  not, 
Monsieur  le  Recteur?  It's  only  right  that  the  old  city 
under  the  sea  should  celebrate." 

"Oh,  Pierrek!"  M.  Kornog  remonstrated.  "Are  you  to 
remain  always  the  same  incorrigible  dreamer?  What 
can  gardens  that  were  sunk  a  thousand  years  ago  have 
to  do  with  this?" 

"Everything,  Monsieur  le  Recteur — everything!  You 
don't  believe?  What  of  the  pest  ship,  then,  that  you 
scolded  me  about  on  this  very  same  path  three  years  ago  ? 

1  Lately  some  exquisite  fragments  of  mosaic  pavement,  coated 
over  with  a  strangely  hard  transparent  lacquer,  that  have  been 
raised  by  fishermen  from  the  sea,  would  seem  to  indicate  that 
the  legendary  city  of  Ker-Ys  had  an  actual  existence.  It  is  said 
to  have  been  swallowed  up  by  the  waves  at  the  bidding  of  St. 
Gwenole"  on  account  of  the  wickedness  of  the  beautiful  Ahes,  who 
afterwards  became  Queen  of  the  Sirens. 
10  139 


GRAY    MIST 

What  about  the  pressigne  l  we  saw  together — the  little 
blue  fire-ball — on  the  night  of  my  revered  father's  death 
— peace  be  to  his  soul?" 

The  Recteur  slackened  his  pace  a  little  —  they  were 
skirting  the  cemetery  wall  now — and  before  answering  he 
cast  a  swift  glance  at  the  rough  granite  cross  that  marked 
Herve"'s  last  resting-place.  Carefully  and  lovingly  was 
the  little  plot  tended,  and  a  profusion  of  asters,  both 
mauve  and  white,  raised  their  dew-spangled  heads  amid 
a  deep  border  of  ivy  on  the  narrow  mound.  It  was  not 
far  from  the  low  wall,  and  as  they  slowly  walked  past 
both  men  reverently  removed  their  hats. 

"Yes,"  M.  Kornog  said,  meditatively,  "it  was  a  strange 
and  wonderful  sight — but  still,  my  boy,  it  did  not  smack 
of  the  irreligious,  whereas  those  legends  of  Ker-Ys — " 

For  a  moment  Pierrek  pondered.  "All  the  same, 
Monsieur  le  Recteur,  whether  you  believe  me  or  not,  I 
myself  have  seen  on  moonlight  nights  the  face  of  Ahes 2 
looking  up  at  me  from  the  rock-pool  of  the  Needles  of 
Treguillec  with  her  fiery  green  eyes.  I've  heard  her 
voice  foretelling  storms  at  moonrise,  and  I've  seen  her — 
I've  seen  her  herself,  Monsieur  le  Recteur — floating  by, 
her  long,  red -gold  hair  —  the  very  color  of  mine,  by- 
the-way,"  he  interrupted  himself  to  say  with  an  embar 
rassed  little  laugh — "trailing  behind  her  from  beneath  a 
great  crown  of  shining  green  stones!  It's  she  who  lures 
us  sailors  to  our  death  with  her  witch's  song: 

' '  A  hes,  breman- Mary-Morgan 
E  skend  an  oabr,  d'an  noz,  a  gan  /"  3 

1  Premonition. 

2  Ahes  is  also  known  by  the  name  of  Dahut,  as  the  King  of 
Ker-Ys,  her  father,  is  in  certain  provinces  of  Brittany  designated 
by  that  of  Grallon. 

3  Forever  does  Ahes  < '  c  siren  sing  to  the  glow  of  the  firmament. 

140 


GRAY    MIST 

"Why,  Nedetek  Houarn,  Monsieur  le  Recteur,  has 
watched  King  Grallon  galloping  like  mad  on  his  ghost 
horse  along  the  beach — he  can't  rest,  poor  soul,  since  St. 
Gwenole  made  him  cast  his  wicked  daughter  into  the 
whirlpool  of  Ker-Ys.  Besides,  there  are  some  who  say — 

But  here  the  Cure  sternly  interfered. 

"I  don't  care  to  hear  you  speak  like  that,  Pierrek — no, 
not  in  the  least,  especially  on  a  day  like  to-day!  Let 
Ahes  and  King  Grallon  and  poor  St.  Gwenole  alone. 
What  you  should  think  of  is  this  unexpected  happiness 
of  yours,  and  how  to  make  your  little  wife  happy.  Fancy 
you  as  a  husband!"  And  all  severity  disappearing  from 
his  face  at  the  thought,  he  laughed  heartily. 

Pierrek,  a  little  abashed,  was  looking  at  him  with  eyes 
suddenly  soft  and  deep  and  dark.  "One  will  do  one's 
best,  Monsieur  le  Recteur!"  he  murmured,  shamefacedly. 

"I  hope  so!"  the  Cure  said,  gravely,  pausing  a  second, 
for  they  were  now  within  a  stone's  -  throw  of  Lanaik's 
garden -wall.  "But  remember,  Pierrek,  no  drinking! 
You  have  been  reasonable  until  now,  it  is  true ;  neverthe 
less,  drink  is  the  curse  of  our  land.  You  are  only  nine 
teen,  and  have  not  been  tempted — as  yet,  but  I  want  to 
be  sure  that  you  will  not  later  go  the  way  of  all  the 
rest." 

"But  certainly,  Monsieur  le  Recteur!  My  father  did 
not  drink  —  hard,  that  is,  nor  my  uncle  Oan-Gweled. 
Why  should  I?" 

"Your  father  was  an  exceptional  man  in  every  respect 
— a  rare  type  of  the  long  ago — but  other  men  of  your 
family  drink  like  swine,  as  you  well  know,  and  I  don't 
want  you  ever  to  be  like  them." 

At  the  door  of  the  cottage  stood  Lanaik,  for  the  first 
time  since  Herve"'s  death  clad  in  fete  clothes — her  own 
wedding  -  habit  of  fine,  dark -blue  cloth  bordered  and 

141 


GRAY    MIST 

banded  with  velvet.  The  tight -fitting  Justin,1  gleam 
ing  with  multi-colored  silk  embroideries  and  silver  pail 
lettes,  was  finished  off  on  the  shoulders  and  around  the 
neck  by  one  of  those  daintily-fluted  ruffs  of  rare  old  lace 
that  have  been  handed  down  to  Brittany  from  the  six 
teenth  century.  Her  apron  was  of  black  moire  antique, 
at  her  throat  gleamed  the  triple  chain  of  gold  that  sup 
ports  the  heart  and  cross  of  wedded  women,  and  around 
her  exquisitely-transparent  coiffe  was  pinned  the  narrow 
circle  of  golden  tissue  that  completes  the  beautiful  cos 
tume  of  the  women  of  Kermarioker.2 

"Well,  Mammik,  you  look  as  young  as  I  do!"  Pierrek 
exclaimed,  delightedly.  "They'll  think  you  are  the 
bride,"  but  seeing  the  soft  blue  eyes  fill  with  tears  he 
stooped  quickly,  kissed  her  tenderly — a  thing  he  had  not 
done  since  his  return  from  Iceland,  for  it  is  not  etiquette 
to  kiss  one's  parents  in  Brittany,  excepting  on  great  oc 
casions — and  ran  into  the  house. 

"Don't  cry,  Lanaik!"  the  Recteur  said,  kindly.  "You 
have  much  to  be  grateful  for,  remember,  and  you  know 
very  well  that  Herve  is  pleased,  too,  so  don't  spoil  your 
joy  and  his  by  useless  repinings!" 

Instantly  Lanaik's  face  brightened,  and  brushing  away 
her  tears  she  turned  to  the  Recteur  with  an  April  smile. 

"Oh,  Monsieur  le  Recteur!"  she  explained,  clasping  her 
hands  like  an  eager  child,  "you  don't  know  how  comfort 
ing  it  is  to  hear  you  say  that.  My  mother  used  to  tell 
me  that  one  grieved  less  when  one  could  feel  one's  dead 
to  be  always  close  by,  and  that's  what  I've  been  trying 
to  do  ever  since  my  poor  Hoarve's  death,  but  I  was  afraid 

1  Name  of  corsage  in  Finisterre. 

3  As  explained  in  the  author's  previous  volume,  Tlie  Trident 
and  the  Net,  every  village  in  Brittany  has  its  own  peculiar  cos 
tumes  and  customs, 

142 


GRAY    MIST 

that  I  might  be  doing  wrong  to  bring  him  down  to  earth 
so  often  to  attend  to  me.  Do  you  really,  really  mean 
that  there  is  no  harm  in  it?" 

"No!"  the  Recteur  said,  gravely  and  decisively,  "you 
can  do  him  no  harm,  no  harm  at  all,  Lanaik.  The  mys 
tery  surrounding  death  is  not  quite  so  terrible  to  us 
Bretons,  because  we  do  not  dread  it.  We  live  on  with 
our  dead,  and  they  help  us  along.  Be  of  good  courage, 
my  daughter.  Life  is  just  only  a  little  trial  God  has  im 
posed  upon  us  to  find  out  how  we  acquit  ourselves  before 
taking  us  into  his  closer  care,  and  he  condescends  to  let 
the  already  Blessed  come  to  lend  us  a  little  strength  oc 
casionally.  That's  all  as  it  should  be!" 

Lanaik's  eyes  were  wet  and  shining  like  stars.  Sud 
denly  she  stooped  and  laid  her  lips  on  the  dark  sleeve  of 
the  priest's  soutane  with  the  lightest,  shyest  touch  of 
gratitude  and  pure  homage. 

"You  are  a  Saint,  Monsieur  le  Recteur,"  she  murmured, 
very  low,  "and  we  thank  Our  Lady  every  day  who  has 
given  you  to  us  poor  ignorant  people." 

Now  the  Recteur  hated  praise,  as  already  stated,  and 
despised  even  more  than  most  Bretons  any  display  of 
emotion,  but  in  spite  of  this  firmly -rooted  dislike  the 
spontaneity  and  sincerity  of  the  action  moved  him 
strangely,  and  although  he  turned  roughly  away  there 
were  tears  in  his  stern  eyes  as  he  did  so. 

A  few  minutes  later  they  were  walking  briskly  towards 
the  tiny  creek  where  the  Stereden-Ab-Vor  and  its  crew 
were  waiting  to  take  them  across  to  Enez-Pers.  The 
men  with  Nedelek  Houarn  at  their  head,  all  of  them 
wearing  brand-new  clothes  and  immaculate  berets,  cheer 
ed  as  they  approached,  and  Ne"delek,  solemnly  advanc 
ing,  cap  in  hand,  pinned  a  knot  of  white  roses  to  the 
lapel  of  Piertek's  fine,  blue-serge  pilot-jacket.  A  similar 


GRAY    MIST 

cluster,  only  forty  times  as  big,  adorned  the  boat's  bow 
sprit,  and  away  up,  on  the  summit  of  the  main-mast,  just 
below  the  azure  gala-burgee  she  flew,  a  great  heart  made 
of  intertwined  twigs  of  heather  had  been  securely  fast 
ened  like  a  knightly  shield. 

If  the  Stereden,  freshly  rubbed  down  and  still  wet  and 
shiny,  was  rather  redolent  of  yesterday's  catch — small  as 
the  latter  had  been — who  cared  for  that?  The  men, 
looking  extraordinarily  jolly  in  their  new  dark -blue 
jerseys  and  cherry  -  colored  sashes,  unfurled  the  jib, 
Pierrek  took  the  tiller,  the  sails  flagged  a  second,  then 
slowly  caught  the  breeze,  and  the  chaloupe,  gracefully 
bending  to  the  gentle  impulse,  headed  for  Enez-Pers  lying 
there  far  away  upon  the  blue  water — a  narrow  bar  of 
azure,  but  slightly  deeper  in  tint  than  the  straight  sup 
porting  line  of  sea-rim. 

Tad  Karadek  was  standing  on  the  mole  awaiting  them, 
tall,  erect,  his  gray  head  bare.  At  his  side  were  the  chief 
men  of  his  c'hlan,  all  dressed  in  their  best,  and  wearing 
wedding-favors  of  white  rosebuds  in  their  coats.  They 
formed  an  imposing  company  grouped  there  about  their 
chief,  giants  in  height,  of  haughty  mien,  and  silent  as 
only  Bretons  can  be — when  sober!  There  was  a  subtle 
constraint  in  the  courteous  reception  of  these  men,  who 
gave  one  an  odd  impression  of  brotherhood,  as  one  saw 
them  thus  together.  They  displayed  no  hostility,  ex 
pressed  neither  joy  nor  regret,  but  simply  carried  them 
selves  with  a  phlegmatic  dignity,  that  if  slightly  em 
barrassing  to  the  new-comers,  yet  well  became  their 
magnificent  statures  and  clean-cut,  clean-shaven  faces. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause  as  the  two  parties  faced 
each  other,  and  even  the  indomitable  Abbe"  Kornog 
glanced  uneasily  over  his  shoulder,  not — be  it  said  in 
justice — out  of  any  personal  anxiety,  but  somehow  he 

144 


GRAY    MIST 

felt  only  half -reassured  for  Pierrek,  who,  his  gray  eyes 
flashing  queerly,  stood  absolutely  still,  taller  than  the 
tallest  there,  head  erect,  one  hand  resting  lightly  on  his 
left  hip,  and  the  curious  cross  between  his  black  eye 
brows  showing  with  unusual  distinctness. 

At  last  Tad  Karadek  spoke: 

"My  welcome  and  salutations  to  my  nephew  that  is  to 
be!"  he  said,  in  his  calm,  cold  voice;  "and,"  he  added, 
bowing  low,  "to  the  Itron  Rouzik  who  compliments  us 
by  her  presence,  as  well  as  to  Monsieur  le  Recteur,  our 
nephew's  reverenced  guardian.  We  feel  honored  to  offer 
you  all  the  hospitality  of  Enez-Pers." 

With  a  bow  worthy  of  the  Conan's  own,  and  in  a  voice 
just  a  trifle  colder,  Pierrek  returned  the  politeness. 

"My  thanks  and  humble  respect  to  the  Chief  of  the 
Karadeks  who  has  condescended  to  disturb  himself  in 
order  to  greet  us  here.  We  are  in  our  turn  deeply  hon 
ored  to  await  his  pleasure!" 

No  court  of  Europe  could  have  shown  a  finer  sense  of 
punctilious  etiquette,  or  displayed  greater  breeding,  but 
of  a  certainty  cordiality  was  lacking. 

Leading  Lanaik  by  the  hand  the  miller  stepped  forth, 
followed  by  Pierrek  walking  between  the  Cure  and 
Nedelek  Houarn,  who  preceded  the  twenty-four  men  of 
the  escort  marching  two  by  two,  the  arriere-garde  being 
formed  by  the  crew  of  the  Stereden.  A  piper,  the  blue- 
and- white  ribbons  adorning  his  hat  and  bigniou1  flutter 
ing  gayly  in  the  breeze,  preceded  them,  skirling  forth  a 
tune  which  sounded  thin,  reedy,  and  piercingly  shrill,  and 
to  the  strangers  seemed  almost  aggressively  slow  of 
measure — something  in  the  nature  of  a  funeral  march! 

Up,  up,  and  still  higher  up  they  rose  upon  the  steep  path 

1  Bagpipe. 


GRAY    MIST 

winding  through  the  pinewood  to  the  great  plateau  that 
tops  the  island.  Far  above  him  Pierrek  could  see  be 
tween  the  stout  red  trunks  the  massive  wall  of  the  Kara- 
dek  domain,  crowning  the  sheer  edge  of  rock.  And  Faik, 
standing  on  tiptoe  behind  one  of  the  narrowest  loop-holes, 
heard  the  dour  music  of  the  sonneur,1  the  tramp,  tramp  of 
feet  mounting  steadily  along  the  stony  path,  and  smiled 
as  her  lover  would  have  given  all  he  possessed — alas,  that 
it  was  not  more — to  see  her  do! 

An  ideal  path,  though  a  trifle  abrupt,  this  zigzagging 
sentier,  checkered  by  broken  shafts  of  sunshine,  and 
roofed  by  resinous  branches  that  parted  only  to  make 
way  for  delicious  glimpses  of  blue  sky.  Squirrels  brown 
and  velvety  scampered  off  in  sudden  panic  at  the  sound 
of  the  bigniou,  but  darting  little  sidewise  glances  from 
their  bright  eyes  to  take  stock  of  the  amazing  instrument 
before  disappearing  behind  some  rough  trunk  with  quick 
flickings  of  their  feathery  tails. 

Higher  and  higher  wound  the  cortege,  until  at  last  it 
emerged  into  the  open,  and  passed  musique  en  tete  into 
Faik's  garden — a  mosaic  of  festive  colors,  composed  of 
larkspurs  and  pansies,  geraniums  and  marigolds,  chrys 
anthemums,  dahlias  and  asters,  tall  stately  hollyhocks, 
and  petunias  in  royal  profusion,  nodding  in  the  ambient 
light.  Without  the  walls  it  had  been  just  a  little  too 
warm,  but  here  there  was  cool,  green  shadow,  filled  with 
bird -songs  and  the  penetrating  smell  of  box -hedges. 
Wide  open  stood  the  door,  and  within  its  mullioned  porch 
garlanded  with  clematis — Virgin's  Bower,  indeed — was 
Faik  all  alone,  as  the  custom  wills  it  there,  waiting. 

At  sight  of  her  all  Pierrek's  irritation  vanished,  and 
well  it  might,  for  never  was  picture  more  exquisite  than 

1  Piper. 
146 


GRAY    MIST 

the  one  presented  by  that  little  seventeen-year-old  bride 
in  her  marriage  attire.  Black  were  the  tight-fitting  cor 
sage  and  skirt  that  cleared  the  dainty  feet  and  ankles  in 
their  crimson  stockings  and  yellow,  red-heeled  shoes ;  white 
as  snow  the  broad,  flat  collarette,  spreading  winglike  upon 
her  shoulders,  and  she  had  indeed  nothing  to  fear  from 
the  searching  rays  of  the  mid-day  sun,  that  picked  out 
the  design  of  her  sumptuous  embroideries,  made  a  filmy 
silvered  cloud  of  her  transparent  lace  coiffe,  glanced  from 
the  melting  azure  and  rose  of  her  moire  apron,  and  drew 
sparks  from  the  massive  golden  heart  and  cross  at  her 
white  throat.  She  seemed  herself  a  creation  of  summer 
and  sky  and  sea,  for  her  rare  beauty  partook  of  the  deli 
cate  tints  and  glorious  brightnesses  of  all. 

The  shrill  music  had  abruptly  ceased,  the  escort  had 
fallen  back,  and  Pierrek  advanced  alone  until  within 
three  feet  of  Faik,  when  he,  too,  stopped.  Neither  spoke, 
but  stood  face  to  face,  mute  and  shaken  by  an  inexpressi 
ble  emotion,  their  glances  welded  to  each  other  in  a  sort 
of  supreme  —  almost  anguished  —  interrogation.  White 
now  as  her  slender  wreath  of  half-open  rose-buds,  Faik 
swayed  slightly,  one  hand  holding  for  support  to  the  side 
of  the  granite  arch,  while  he,  all  his  adoration  in  his  eyes, 
dared  not  move  so  much  as  one  more  pace  towards  her. 
Then  it  was  that  Tad  Karadek  came  forward. 

"In  my  time,"  he  said,  with  the  faintest  possible  smile 
trembling  on  his  sarcastic  lips — "in  my  time,  it  seems  to 
me  that  kisses  were  exchanged!"  and  he  led  Pierrek  up 
the  steps. 

The  church  where  the  ceremony  was  to  take  place 
could  be  reached  only  by  a  narrow  path  running  almost 
perpendicularly  down  towards  the  sea,  for  St.  Kaour  de 
Kastel - ar - Veur  hangs  like  a  swallow's  nest  half-way 
down  the  cliff.  In  bad  weather  it  is  impossible  to  get 


GRAY    MIST 

there,  and  even  to-day  one  could  see  jets  of  dazzling 
foam  rising  to  a  level  with  its  tiny  parvise,  and  tumbling 
back  again  upon  the  giant's  staircase  of  blue  basalt  that 
drops  away  below. 

Walking  just  ahead  of  her  uncle — for  the  path  between 
the  serried  ranks  of  pines  was  not  wide  enough  for  two — 
Faik  did  not  once  require  the  assistance  of  his  ready  arm, 
she  was  far  too  happy  to  mind  the  difficulties  of  the  way ; 
indeed,  she  scarcely  noticed  them.  Immediately  in  front 
of  her  two  sonneurs  now  instead  of  one  playing  as  they 
jumped  from  rock  to  rock,  produced  a  music  of  the 
highest  originality,  that  seemed,  however,  greatly  ap 
preciated  by  the  gulls,  for  clouds  and  clouds  of  them, 
both  silver-white  and  silver-gray,  flocked  about  their  be- 
ribboned  heads  with  rival  shrieks.  Or  were  they  per 
chance  there  to  attend  their  godson's  wedding — "Pierrek, 
Godson  of  the  Gulls,"  as  very  long  ago  old  Mari-Gwezek 
had  once  called  him? 

From  all  the  hamlets  of  Enez-Pers  the  people  had 
crowded  to  witness  this  sensational  wedding  and  do 
honor  to  the  Conan,  but  not  alone  did  they  occupy  the 
narrow  court  before  the  little  church,  for  a  portion  of  the 
already  restricted  space  had  been  reverently  reserved  for 
the  infirm  and  the  mendicant.  Here  shouted  and  yelled 
a  veritable  cour  des  miracles — an  assemblage  of  appalling 
remnants  of  humanity,  brought  there  in  the  arms  or  on 
the  backs  of  friends  and  relatives,  and  who  bellowed  ear- 
piercing  prayers  without  mercy  or  cessation.  The  blind 
stumbled  along  the  abrupt  edge,  tapping  with  their  pen- 
baz  wherever  they  listed,  be  it  on  the  heads  of  those 
wretches  half  paralyzed  or  completely  cul-de-jattes  who 
crawled  between  everybody's  legs.  Some  of  the  coun 
tenances  were  atrocious,  huge  mushy  heads  balanced  on 
pitifully  bent  shoulders,  waxlike  physiognomies  like  pet- 

148 


GRAY    MIST 

rified  death-masks  emaciated  and  hollowed,  convulsed 
mouths  and  red  bordered,  watery  eyes  that  seemed  to 
shoot  the  glances  of  hell.  None  dared  repress  them,  or 
even  reprove  by  a  word  their  outrageous  conduct,  for 
in  Brittany  the  infirm,  the  afflicted,  the  penniless — and, 
above  all,  the  "innocent" — are  sacred.  Nobody,  how 
ever,  appeared  to  notice  their  fearful  uglinesses — one  is 
too  accustomed  to  such  sights  for  that — and  in  the  out 
stretched  palms,  in  the  tattered  hats,  and  crudely  painted 
wooden  bowls  aggressively  extended  in  their  inhuman 
claws,  centimes  and  sous  were  raining. 

Within  the  church — a  rough  building  of  huge  blocks  of 
stone,  blotched  and  speckled  by  the  sea-damp — the  cor 
tege,  which  had  entered  tant  bien  que  mal,  had  reformed, 
and  on  the  altar  steps  Pierrek  and  Faik  were  kneeling, 
with  Tad  Karadek,  Lanaik,  and  M.  Kornog  immediately 
behind  them.  The  Cure  of  Kermarioker  was  merely 
there  in  his  capacity  of  guardian  to  a  minor,  and  it  was 
the  Recteur  of  Kaster-ar-Veur  who  officiated.  The  face 
of  this  very,  very  aged  priest  struck  a  note  of  peculiar 
beauty  and  sincerity  as  he  stood  there,  draped  in  his  long, 
white  surplice  and  silver  -  broidered  stole,  his  dim  blue 
eyes  resting  with  soft  tenderness  upon  the  young  couple 
for  whom  he  was  invoking  from  the  core  of  his  great,  de 
voted  heart  the  blessings  of  all  the  Breton  Saints. 

All  the  while  the  great  bell  was  booming  overhead, 
terrifying  the  rooks  out  of  their  favorite  haunts  in  the 
primitive  sculptures  of  the  ancient  tower,  from  whence 
they  departed  with  caws  and  croakings  of  hoarse  anger. 
Suddenly  the  organ  rolled  out  its  deep  voice,  which, 
prisoned  within  the  groined  and  arching  vault,  shook 
the  hundreds  of  pendent  ex  votos,  and  scattered  emotions 
both  very  religious  and  very  human  above  all  those  bowed 
heads.  The  mass  was  long  and  well  sung,  and  at  its 

149 


GRAY    MIST 

conclusion  everybody  rose  to  hear  the  aged  Cure's  allo 
cution: 

"O  my  children!"  the  trembling  old  lips  pronounced, 
''the  bond  is  tied,  and  you  are  man  and  wife.  You, 
Faik,  who  hitherto  have  given  your  people  nought  but 
joy  and  pride,  and  you,  Pierrek,  son  of  another  shore,  of 
whom  we  have  heard  but  what  is  good  and  true,  are  in- 
dissolubly  united  before  God  and  man.  Love  one  an 
other,  bear  with  one  another's  faults,  encourage  each 
other's  efforts  to  do  well,  and  lead  the  pure  and  noble 
life  of  true  children  of  Armor.  We  take  you  to  our 
hearts,  Pierrek  Rouzik,  as  the  one  chosen  by  our  fairest 
daughter.  You  are  now  as  one  of  ourselves,  for  weal 
and  woe,  to  the  day  of  your  death.  Cherish  her,  my  son. 
Spare  her  all  unnecessary  pain,  shield  her  from  all  evil 
with  those  strong  arms  of  yours.  And  you,  Faik,  obey 
him  and  reverence  him  as  your  lord  and  just  master,  for 
thus  alone  can  a  wife  be  blessed.  I  thank  and  praise  St. 
Kaour,  patron  of  our  island,  who  has  granted  me  to  live 
to  see  this  day,  and  in  his  tender  care  do  I  place  you 
both.  In  the  name  of  the  Father,  the  Son  and  the  Holy 
Ghost.  Amen." 

The  tremulous  old  hands  remained  poised  for  a  few 
seconds  above  the  kneeling  bride  and  groom.  Faik  and 
Lanaik  were  both  crying  quietly,  and  down  the  rugged 
cheeks  of  Tad  Karadek  two  large  tears  silently  rolled. 
A  moment  more  and  the  procession  was  slowly  moving 
out,  preceded  by  the  gorgeously  apparelled  beadle,  his 
cocked  hat  worn  fiercely  en  bataille  over  his  rope-yarn 
bob-wig,  his  heavy  staff  of  office  cutting  a  merciless  lane 
through  the  throng.  Side  by  side  the  young  couple  fol 
lowed  him  down  the  wide,  moss-grown  steps,  holding 
each  other  by  the  little  ringer,  she  her  lovely  eyes  down 
cast,  he  looking  straight  in  front  of  him  with  a  very 


GRAY    MIST 

slight  contraction  of  his  telltale  eyebrows  that  seemed, 
however,  to  say  to  all  present,  "Take  her  from  me  now 
if  you  dare!" 

Twice  around  the  parvise  they  went,  scattering  rich 
alms,  for  Tad  Karadek  liked  to  do  things  well  on  occa 
sion,  and  then  up  through  the  pines  again,  climbing  skil 
fully,  as  coast  Bretons  do,  without  any  false  steps  that 
might  have  sent  them  headlong  into  the  abyss,  but,  of 
course,  not  once  thinking  of  picking  their  way.  So  eager 
were  they,  so  young  and  so  joyful,  that  almost  at  once 
they  left  the  single-file  procession,  and  even  the  advent 
urous  sonneurs,  far  in  the  rear.  He  was  immediately 
behind  her  as  they  breasted  the  most  dangerous  portion 
of  the  abrupt  slope,  and  once,  without  her  noticing  it,  he 
suddenly  bent  and  kissed  the  velvet  hem  of  her  dress,  as 
he  would  have  the  Madonna's. 

Breathless  and  a  little  embarrassed,  they  stopped  on 
the  summit.  It  would  not  have  been  seemly,  even  now, 
for  them  to  have  re-entered  the  house  alone,  and  so  they 
waited  side  by  side  without  a  word;  but  at  last,  just  as 
the  noise  of  clambering  feet  immediately  below  heralded 
the  advent  of  the  guests,  he  turned  suddenly  to  her. 

"Forever!"  he  murmured,  very  low. 

"Forever!"  she  echoed,  in  a  whisper  so  faint  that  he 
only  just  caught  it,  but  their  eyes,  which  met  as  they 
had  done  beneath  the  clematis  an  hour  earlier,  clung  to 
each  other,  and  added  all  that  there  was  yet  to  say. 

The  old  house  seemed  to  smile  at  them,  as  holding 
once  more  par  le  petit  doigt  they  skirted  the  great  box- 
hedge  and  came  round  to  its  southern  front,  a  mellow 
sweep  of  color,  with  the  mica-spangled  gray  of  its  ivy- 
draped  walls  sunlit  and  welcoming  against  the  blue  of 
the  tender  Breton  sky.  The  door  still  stood  wide  open, 
but  the  salle  as  they  entered  it  from  the  brilliance  with- 


GRAY    MIST 

out,  was  dark  at  first  and  a  little  chilling.  Little  by 
little  the  subdued  twilight  turned  from  decorous  dusk  to 
mere  softened  brightness  and  defined  the  square,  spacious 
room,  with  its  walls  of  well-polished  dark  oak,  the  ceiling 
crossed  and  recrossed  by  heavy  rafters  forming  irregular 
caissons,  the  floor  a  pavement  of  broad  stone  flags, 
gleaming  where  the  feet  of  generation  after  generation 
had  hollowed  and  polished  it.  The  narrow  windows  set 
in  their  deep  stone  embrasures  looked  out  upon  the  sea 
and  let  in  thin  -  streaming  vortices  of  gold-dust,  while 
across  one  corner  jutted  a  gigantic  fireplace,  with  nearly 
effaced  armorial  bearings  emblazoned  above  its  broad 
mantel;  and  in  the  centre  stood  the  banqueting  -  table, 
stout  and  broad,  and  heaped,  as  was  right,  with  many 
good  things. 

The  salle  was  for  the  family  and  distinguished  guests; 
to  the  right  and  left  other  rooms  were  filling  with  the 
smaller  fry,  boys  and  girls  mostly,  who  laughed  merrily 
and  joked  in  the  peculiarly  decent  manner  Bretons  have. 
Roast  and  boiled  meats,  geese,  ducks,  chickens  and 
game,  huge  pies  that  threatened  to  topple  over  so  am 
bitious  was  their  mediaeval  structure,  jellies  and  cakes, 
fruit,  sweetmeats,  cider,  wine,  brandy,  rum,  and  liqueurs, 
made  up  a  menu  that  aroused  universal  satisfaction,  and 
almost  succeeded  in  unbending  the  far-famed  taciturnity 
of  Enez-Pers.  Decidedly,  Tad  Kara"dek  was  nobly  main 
taining  his  honor  as  Conan  of  the  C'hlan!  The  wines  and 
spirits  had  never  paid  any  duty,  but  what  of  that? 
Enez-Pers  could  afford  to  laugh  at  those  "Dogs  of  Douan- 
iers"  who  pester  the  main-land,  and  Enez-Pers  laughed  in 
her  azure  sleeve — not  very  loud,  for  fear  of  being  heard 
across  the  bay — for  the  joke,  though  a  little  antiquated 
by  now,  was  always  so  full  of  biting  flavor! 

Side  by  side,  like  the  kings  and  queens  of  old,  Pierrek 


GRAY    MIST 

and  Faik  ate  next  to  nothing,  much  to  the  miller's  in 
dignation.  They  looked  at  each  other,  which  wholly 
satisfied  them,  and  once  or  twice  their  hands  met  fur 
tively  beneath  the  ponderous  table  edge,  when  conversa 
tion  had  become  general  and  they  believed  themselves 
unobserved. 

Tad  Karadek,  on  grand  hospitality  bent,  rose  at 
length  and  brought  with  his  own  hands  a  rotund  flask  of 
ruby-tinted  wine  from  a  side-table. 

"This,"  he  said,  in  the  midst  of  an  impressive  silence, 
"should  be  drunk  with  fervor  and  concentration.  It 
comes  from  the  wreck  of  a  Spanish  vessel  which  in  my 
good  father's  time  shattered  upon  our  rocks,  and  its 
flavor  has  never  been  endangered  by  taxing!" 

A  laugh  ran  round  the  board,  heartier  than  any  that 
had  preceded  it,  and  the  company  stood  up  to  empty  the 
brimming  glasses. 

"I  drink,"  the  Conan  said,  solemnly,  "to  the  bride  and 
groom,"  he  bowed  in  the  direction  of  Faik  and  Pierrek, 
"to  the  I  iron  Rouzik,"  he  inclined  his  silvered  head  tow 
ards  Lanaik,  "and  to  Monsieur  le  Recteur  of  Kermario- 
ker."  Here  the  ceremony  was  concluded  with  a  pro 
found,  semi  -  religious  obeisance  to  M.  Kornog,  who  re 
turned  the  politeness  by  raising  his  own  glass  to  the 
level  of  his  forehead,  as  good  breeding  demands  on  such 
occasions.  Tad  Karadek  straightened  to  his  full  height 
again,  and,  indicating  by  a  pleasant  smile  that  the  formal 
part  of  the  matter  was  over,  added,  suddenly: 

"Now,  all  together,  my  children!  Bad  luck  to  the 
Maltote!"1 

A  yell,  fierce  and  prolonged,  rang  deafeningly  beneath 
the  low  ceiling,  fairly  shaking  the  rafters,  a  yell  in  which 

1  An  all-embracing  word,  meaning  everything  connected  with 
the  Customs. 


GRAY    MIST 

sounded  a  strange  note  of  exultant  ferocity — in  one  word, 
that  most  thrilling  of  earthly  sounds,  the  hostile  roar  of  a 
hundred  human  throats. 

"It's  a  good  thing  Cousin  Koader  is  not  here!"  Faik 
whispered  to  Pierrek,  in  the  momentary  silence  that  fol 
lowed  the  terrific  noise;  "she's  married  a  gablou,1  and  is 
as  proud  of  him  as  can  be.  She  would  never  have  for 
given  this!" 

"And  who  is  Cousin  Koader?"  he  whispered  back. 

"Oh,  she  is  Uncle  Gwion's  niece  on  the  other  side,  and 
a  vixen,  if  you  want  to  know,  but  she  is  very  well  off, 
and  holds  quite  a  position.  Her  precious  husband,  a 
brigadier  de  Douane,  if  you  please,  has  just  been  trans 
ferred  to  Penmarch,  and  that  is  why  she  could  not  come, 
but — " 

She  did  not  conclude  the  sentence,  for  all  at  once  a  re 
verberating  crash  of  thunder,  short  and  sharp  like  the 
explosion  of  a  bomb,  shook  the  old  house.  With  ex 
clamations  of  astonishment  those  nearest  to  the  windows 
rushed  up  to  look  out,  Pierrek  and  Faik  foremost,  and  a 
grand  and  terrible  sight  met  their  eyes.  From  the  south 
west  a  vast  mobilization  of  clouds,  black  as  some  ragged 
pall,  was  swiftly  advancing  across  the  sky,  which  to  the 
east  was  still  translucently  blue,  shouldering  before  it  a 
quivering  zone  of  livid  darkness.  Even  as  they  looked, 
standing  hand  in  hand  within  the  deep  embrasure,  a 
swift  streamer  of  dazzling  violet  light  shot  along  the 
bellying  blackness,  bisecting  as  it  fell  into  branching 
torches  of  blinding  orange,  and  the  storm  burst  in  all  its 
insane  fury.  Dirling  peal  after  dirling  peal  rang  out  like 
the  notes  of  some  tocsin  of  doom,  and  all  the  guests  sat 
or  stood  in  utter  silence,  the  women  holding  tightly  to 

1  Douanier,  Customs  official. 


GRAY    MIST 

their  rosaries,  the  men  grave  and  decidedly  impressed, 
too,  for  nothing  like  this  thunder-storm  had  in  the  recol 
lection  of  any  present  ever  interrupted  a  marriage- feast 
on  Enez  -  Pers  —  and  thunder  -  storms  under  such  cir 
cumstances  are,  as  everybody  knows,  omens  of  great 
evil. 

Changed  in  a  few  minutes  was  the  delicious  aspect  of 
Azure  Island;  land  and  sea  wore  now  an  abominable 
mien  beneath  the  livid  veils  that  spread  a  limitless 
breadth  of  twilight  above  them.  Louder  and  louder  rose 
the  voices  of  the  wind,  racing  above  the  short,  choppy 
waves,  already  marbled  and  mottled  with  slaver  past 
recognizing  for  the  same  that  had  lapped  and  gambolled 
so  brightly  around  the  Island  a  moment  before.  Uncon 
scionable  and  useless  seemed  this  imbecile  transforma 
tion  of  beautiful  things  into  fearful  ones,  and  gazing  upon 
the  writhing  pine-trees,  the  shivering  plants  and  flowers 
bending  or  breaking  as  chance  decreed,  the  mystery  of 
this  blind  destruction  grew  oppressive  beyond  endurance 
to  Faik. 

"Why  should  this  have  come  to-day?"  she  murmured, 
in  a  stifled  voice,  her  little  figure  shaking  with  enerva 
tion.  "Will  it  bring  bad  luck  to  us?"  Her  pretty 
mouth  was  quivering,  for  the  tension  was  rapidly  grow 
ing  to  snapping  point,  and  Pierrek  knew  it  to  be  so, 
knew  also  that  all  those  of  Enez-Pers  crowding  behind 
him  felt  convinced  that  this  sudden  tempest  embodied 
Heaven's  displeasure  at  his  union  with  one  of  their  maid 
ens.  The  progress  of  the  banquet  had  not  been  marked 
by  any  cordial  advances  to  himself,  and  now  black  looks 
and  furious  scowls  had  gathered  on  wellnigh  every  brow, 
and  mutterings  more  portentous  than  those  of  the  storm 
were  beginning  to  make  themselves  heard.  A  sullen  re 
sentment  against  such  injustice  rose  in  his  heart. 


GRAY    MIST 

"Come,  Faik-gez,"  he  whispered  in  her  ear,  "let  us  go 
now — at  once!" 

With  sudden  comprehension  the  girl  quickly  glanced 
past  his  shoulder  and  saw  the  threatening  faces  clustered 
around  them,  the  lowering  looks  of  all  those  pairs  of  eyes, 
and  then  at  Pierrek  himself,  who,  white  to  the  lips,  held 
his  furious  resentment,  as  they  say  in  Brittany,  clinched 
between  his  teeth.  Fortunately,  the  big  room  was  almost 
dark,  and  if  they  could  succeed  in  casually  withdrawing 
from  the  embrasure,  she  thought  they  might  possibly 
slip  unnoticed  through  the  crowd,  if  not — well,  these 
men  of  Enez-Pers  were  unaccountable  in  their  actions! 
She  knew  their  superstitions,  their  violence,  their  hatred 
for  everything  outside  of  their  Island,  and  her  heart  stood 
still.  They  had  been  drinking  heavily,  too,  and  this  on 
Enez-Pers  means  more  than  anywhere  else  on  earth! 
Pierrek,  she  considered,  was  angry,  but  so  far  ignorant 
of  his  danger,  and  her  womanly  tact  told  her  that  if  he 
once  became  aware  of  it  he  would  stay  there  and  face  the 
worst,  so  with  a  sang-froid  she  would  have  been  incapable 
of  five  minutes  before,  she  began  to  edge  away  from  the 
window,  drawing  him  gently  but  firmly  with  her.  Al 
most  was  the  task  accomplished,  already  the  zone  of 
light  was  behind  them,  when  without  any  warning  their 
way  was  barred  by  the  strapping  figure  of  her  cousin 
Klaoda. 

"Where  are  you  for,  Diav^siad?"  l  he  asked,  in  a  voice 
that  reached  right  across  the  room.  He  was  fighting 
drunk,  not  merely  primed  as  most  of  the  others  were. 
"Trying  to  steal  away,  eh?"  he  continued,  insolently, 
slurring  over  the  ends  of  his  words  a  little,  but  looking 
squarely  and  defiantly  at  Pierrek. 

1  Stranger  who  should  be  elsewhere. 
156 


GRAY    MIST 

"Mind  your  own  business,  will  you?"  the  latter  re 
plied,  contemptuously,  and  thrusting  Faik  behind  him 
he  continued  to  advance.  Unfortunately,  the  Conan 
and  M.  Kornog  had  just  stepped  into  the  kitchen  to 
light  their  pipes,  and  there  also  were  the  men  of  the 
Stereden-Ab-Vor,  excepting  Nedelek  Houarn,  whose  car 
roty  head  and  jaunty  beret  were  vaguely  discernible  at 
the  other  end  of  the  room. 

"Nedelek!"  Pierrek  shouted,  "take  my  mother  out  of 
this!"  The  big  sailor  instantly  turned  on  his  heel,  and 
shouldered  his  way  through  the  throng.  He  was  not 
one  to  ask  questions  or  reflect  over  the  orders  of  his 
young  captain. 

Every  one  in  the  big  salle  had  heard  too,  every  eye 
was  instantly  turned  on  Pierrek,  every  one  swung  round 
to  face  him. 

"Now  then,  are  you  going  to  let  me  pass?"  Pierrek 
said,  in  a  voice  that  Faik  had  never  heard  before,  low 
and  fierce,  that  cut  the  air  like  the  swish  of  a  steel  blade. 

Klaoda laughed.  "Let  you  pass!  No,  you.  .  .  ."  Here 
followed  a  string  of  insults  toppling  over  one  another  in 
tipsy  disorder,  but  still  crudely  betraying  that  the  bitter 
jealousy  of  the  man  was  at  last  bursting  forth  after 
months  of  suppression. 

"Red  hell  of  a  malediction  on  you,  you  fougeer,"  1 
Pierrek  interrupted,  and  whirled  the  man  around  like  a 
top.  With  a  roar  of  rage  the  whole  assembly  leaped  for 
ward,  necks  craned,  nostrils  distended,  eyes  starting  from 
their  sockets — scarcely  held  in  leash  by  some  dim,  drunken 
idea  of  fair  play.  The  situation  was  getting  desperate 
for  Pierrek,  who  had  no  time  to  think,  and  not  a  second 
in  which  to  glance  behind  him  and  see  what  had  become 
of  his  little  bride. 

1  Bully;  braggart. 


GRAY    MIST 

"Paouezid  aze!" l  the  Conan's  voice  cut  in,  like  a 
crack  of  thunder.  It  immobilized  every  single  man  in 
the  room,  even  Klaoda,  who,  held  firmly  by  his  vigorous 
opponent,  had  been  plunging  aimlessly  about  in  vain  at 
tempts  to  trip  him  up.  Every  head  was  lowered,  every 
man  fell  back  to  make  room  for  the  silver-haired  Chief, 
who  came  gripping  a  savage-looking  pen-baz. 

"Look  at  this,  you  hounds!"  he  roared,  brandishing  it 
like  a  bolt.  "I'll  split  the  skull  of  the  first  of  you  who 
stirs!  And  now  make  way!" 

For  the  least  fraction  of  a  second  they  hesitated,  their 
pent-up  fury  straining  to  breaking-point  the  leash  of  old 
fealty  to  their  Chief,  of  respect  for  his  rarely-exercised 
but  unyielding  authority.  But  he  was  not  one  to  joke 
with  when  fully  aroused,  and  growling  like  dogs  they 
slowly  gave  back. 

M.  Kornog  outside  the  door  had  had  his  own  hands 
full  to  prevent  the  crew  of  the  Stereden  from  joining 
the  fray  as  they  came  hustling  out  of  the  kitchen  with 
blood  in  their  eyes — Ne"delek  was  even  now  speeding  the 
recalcitrant  Lanaik  towards  the  harbor  —  and  nothing 
but  the  appearance  o^"  Pierrek,  unharmed,  and  leading 
his  bride  by  the  hand,  averted  a  general  and  murderous 
mel6e. 

"Take  her  away  at  once,"  Tad  Karadek  was  saying, 
hurriedly.  "I  can  keep  them  quiet  for  a  little  .  .  .  but  if 
they  drink  some  more — "  He  left  his  sentence  unfin 
ished,  and  snatching  a  heavy  caban  from  a  peg  threw  it 
over  Faik's  finery.  "The  Saints  protect  you,  my  little 
girl!"  he  said,  pushing  her  over  the  last  step  of  the  porch, 
and  with  a  quick  hand-grasp  to  M.  Kornog,  he  disap 
peared  into  the  house  again. 

1  Halt  there! 
158 


CHAPTER  XI 

Her  glance  is  like  the  lights  that  burn  before  Our  Lady's  shrine, 
Her  laughter  is  a  crystal  song,  her  plighted  troth  is  mine, 
We'll  nest  as  do  the  hawk  and  mew  the  climbing  seas  above; 
St.  Gwenole",  O  haste  the  day  when  I  may  wed  my  love! 

M.  M. 

THE  storm  was  passing  as  swiftly  as  it  had  appeared 
when  the  little  party  found  themselves  once  more  on  the 
pine-clad  slope  outside  the  wall.  The  sharp  cracks  of 
thunder  were  giving  place  to  distant  rumblings,  and  from 
the  west  a  long,  swordlike  ray  of  yellow  sunshine  was 
striping  with  metallic  tints  the  belly  of  a  flying  bank  of 
clouds. 

Faik's  emerald  eyes  were  black  with  excitement,  and 
her  little  face  was  still  pale,  but  she  had  preserved  from 
the  first  the  curious  muteness  of  the  women  of  Brittany 
during  moments  of  stress,  and  now  walked  steadily  and 
unfalteringly  between  her  husband  and  the  Recteur.  Be 
hind  them  strode  the  crew  of  the  Stereden,  muttering 
curses  and  imprecations,  for  they  could  not  get  over  the 
humiliation  of  having  been  prevented  from  "mixing  it 
up"  with  "those  hell-souled  parishioners  up  yonder!" 

In  order,  for  the  sake  of  Faik,  to  avoid  the  beaten 
track  and  possible  unpleasant  encounters,  they  followed 
a  narrow  rut  winding  between  the  rugged  trunks — a  mere 
wrinkle  in  the  brown  covering  of  the  abrupt  slope.  There 
were  big  rocks  to  be  circumvented,  jumps  to  be  taken 
over  fallen  masses  of  branches  all  entangled  in  the  long, 
pliant  arms  of  vigorous  briars,  black-thorn  thickets  that 

IS9 


GRAY    MIST 

stretched  out  net-works  of  deep-biting  thorns  to  bar  their 
way — surely  no  bride  had  ever  had  so  strange  a  home- 
going!  At  length,  however,  the  task  was  accomplished; 
Pierrek  lifted  his  douce  l  over  the  last  obstacle,  and  set 
her  down  upon  the  wet  sand  of  the  beach,  where  they 
had  met  on  an  unforgettable  afternoon  a  little  over  a 
year  ago. 

As  fast  as  their  feet  could  carry  them  they  skirted  the 
ever-broadening  onrush  of  the  waves,  and,  a  little  breath 
less,  reached  the  pier  to  which  the  Stereden  was  moored  just 
as  the  angry  red  orb  of  the  setting  sun  plunged  beneath  the 
horizon  line.  Standing  upon  the  wet  steps  was  Lanaik, 
swathed  in  a  long,  oil-skin  coat  four  times  too  large  for 
her,  but  a  Lanaik  entirely  different  from  the  sweet  little 
woman  they  were  accustomed  to,  watched  over  by  the 
towering  form  of  Nedelek,  who  for  the  last  half-hour  had 
actually  been  forced  to  use  strength  in  order  to  prevent 
her  from  rushing  back  to  her  children's  rescue. 

"And  now  here  they  are  safe  and  sound!"  he  cried, 
triumphantly,  waving  a  hand  like  an  out-spread  sail  in 
the  direction  of  the  hurrying  group.  "What  did  I  tell 
you!  Is  there  any  sense  in  getting  yourself  in  such  a 
state,  Madame  Lanaik?" 

"State  or  no  state,  I'll  remember  you  in  my  prayers, 
Ne"delek  Houarn!"  she  said,  with,  for  her,  an  extraordi 
narily  vicious  toss  of  the  head.  "A  mother's  place  is  by 
her  son's  side,  and  if  you  hadn't  been  such  a  brute  ..." 

"I  had  to  carry  her  down  the  whole  hill!"  poor  Ne'delek 
complained,  in  tones  of  the  deepest  injury,  to  Pierrek. 
"I'd  never  have  thought  she  was  so  strong.  Why,  she 
fought  me  like  a  cat  every  step  of  the  way  .  .  .  sure  she 
did  .  .  .  and  she  so  gentle  usually,  a  little  bit  of  a  woman 

1  Sweetheart. 
160 


GRAY    MIST 

no  taller  than  my  boot  .  .  .  the  devil  take  me  if  I  ever 
get  married!" 

M.  Kornog,  and  even  Picrrek,  who  had  not  unclosed 
his  teeth  since  their  informal  exit  from  the  farm, 
burst  out  laughing.  "I  have  no  doubt,"  the  priest  re 
marked,  placidly,  "that  the  little  voyage  across  the  bay 
will  calm  her  down,  for  if  I'm  not  mistaken  we  are  in  for 
a  head -wind  all  the  way — and  look  at  that  ground- 
swell!" 

Quite  unmindful  of  this  encouraging  prophecy,  Lanaik 
was  examining  Faik  and  Pierrek  all  over  as  if  in  search 
of  some  until  then  overlooked  death-wound,  her  pretty, 
oval  face  still  crimson  with  anger,  her  soft  blue  eyes 
flashing  fire.  "It's  a  shame — a  crying  shame,"  she  ex 
claimed  at  last.  "Oh!  if  I  were  a  man,  I'd — I'd — " 

"Why  Lanaik  Rouzik,"  M.  Kornog  interrupted,  "it's 
a  good  thing  the  gars  can't  hear  you.  I  had  trouble 
enough  to  prevent  them  from  murder!"  He  cast  a 
hasty  look  at  Pierrek  and  his  crew,  who,  choosing  their 
time,  had  sprung  on  board  the  tossing  boat  and  were 
making  ready  to  cast  off.  "Here,  hurry  up!"  he  said  to 
the  two  women.  "Let's  aboard;  we  have  no  time  to  lose 
if  my  ears  are  good  for  anything!"  A  confused  noise  of 
voices  and  running  feet  was  indeed  becoming  plainly  au 
dible  somewhere  on  the  slopes  above.  Fortunately,  those 
in  the  boat  could  hear  nothing,  thanks  to  the  swash  of 
the  waves  beating  against  the  pier,  and  M.  Kornog,  ex 
cellent  sailor  that  he  was,  seizing  the  moment  when  the 
chaloupe  was  flung  up  on  a  level  with  his  feet,  threw  first 
Lanaik  and  then  Faik  like  bundles  into  Nedelek's  and 
Pierrek's  arms,  while  two  of  the  others  with  stout  poles 
fended  the  boat  away  from  the  cascading  masonry. 

Dizzily  the  two  women,  clutching  the  runners,  saw  the 
foam-bespattered  mole  rush  past  them;  then  the  sails 

161 


GRAY    MIST 

filled,  and  the  heavy  bows  took  the  water  with  a  thud 
as  the  Stereden  headed  gallantly  for  home. 

"It's  just  as  well  they  shouldn't  have  noticed  that 
noise,"  M.  Kornog  muttered  to  himself  while  trying 
to  arrange  a  shelter  for  the  women  to  crouch  in  during 
what  must  prove  a  long  and  difficult  voyage,  for  the  sea, 
unlike  the  now  transparently  pellucid  sky,  had  not 
calmed  down.  As  he  completed  his  arrangements  he 
happened  to  glance  back  at  the  island,  and  caught  his 
breath.  The  crenellated  cliffs  they  had  admired  that 
morning  frowned  now  dark  and  grim  above  a  smother  of 
boiling  foam  and  bottle-green  water,  the  belt  of  pines 
looked  black  as  ink  above  the  dark  pillars  of  their  trunks, 
and  between  them,  running,  shouting,  yelling  open- 
mouthed,  stumbling  as  they  scattered,  and  cursing  when 
they  met,  a  mob  of  frenzied  men  led  by  Klaoda  was  de 
scending  like  an  avalanche. 

Pierrek  saw  them  at  the  same  moment.  His  hand  in 
stinctively  tightened  on  the  tiller;  then  his  glance  fell 
upon  his  little  bride,  on  his  mother,  and  the  sacrifice  was 
made.  Sooner  run  away  like  a  coward  than  endanger 
their  safety,  and  the  chaloupe  rising  to  the  waves  plunged 
unchecked  into  the  gathering  gloaming. 

"I'll  come  back!  I'll  come  back!"  he  muttered,  black 
hatred  in  his  eyes  and  in  his  heart.  "Surely  yes — by  St. 
Kaour,  their  patron,  and  by  St.  Hoarve  of  Kermario, 
I'll  come  back,  never  fear!" 

When  the  Stereden  at  last  reached  her  anchorage  the 
great  white  autumn  moon  had  long  since  taken  up  her 
nightly  task  of  sweeping  clear  the  sky — eating  her  supper 
of  clouds,  we  say  out  there — but  a  huge  broken  rack  of 
uncompromising  blackness  spread  behind  the  twin  peaks, 
with  here  and  there  a  thin  spot  where  stars  twinkled 
through.  A  thousand  night  odors  of  earth  and  sea 

162 


THE     CURE'S     LITTLE     POSTERN    DOUR 


GRAY    MIST 

bathed  the  sleeping  village  in  delicious  fragrance  as  the 
bride  and  groom,  escorted  by  Lanaik  and  the  Recteur, 
slowly  made  their  way  towards  the  old  house.  Their 
own  home — a  present  to  his  niece  from  the  rich  miller — • 
was  farther  up  the  coast  by  half  a  mile,  on  one  of  the 
farthest  spurs  of  ruined  Kermario's  rock-base,  but  before 
going  on  there  they  stopped  at  Lanaik's  for  supper,  and 
the  subsequent  performance  of  a  little  ceremony,  with 
out  which  no  Breton  wedding-day  is  allowed  to  pass. 

What  with  fatigue  and  excitement,  it  was  but  a  slender 
meal  that  was  eaten,  and  soon  all  arose  for  the  observ 
ance  of  the  rite,  the  repetition  of  prayers  for  the  repose 
of  kindred  dead.  The  Recteur  had  remained  with  them 
to  do  them  the  honor  of  conducting  this  little  service  of 
the  heart,  and,  standing  at  the  head  of  the  table  whereon 
the  husband  and  father  had  breathed  his  last,  he  began: 

"This  is  for  Jeannik  and  Sulian  Rouzik,  the  builders  of 
this  house:  Requiem  aternam  dona  eis,  Domine,  et  lux  per- 
petua  luceat  in  eis !"  The  beautiful  Latin  words  were  re 
cited  to  the  end,  and  then  repeated  with  varying  pre 
ambles:  "This  is  for  Silvest  Rouzik,  lost  at  sea  off  the 
coast  of  Iceland — this  is  for  Riok  Rouzik,  lost  at  sea  on 
the  Newfoundland  Banks — this  is  for  Judikael  Rouzik, 
drowned  in  a  storm  off  the  coast  of  Penmarch,  and  for 
his  wife,  Paolaik,  who  died  in  childbirth  at  the  news  of 
his  death — this  is  for  Oan-Gweled,  drowned  at  sea — " 
until  each  of  the  departed  had  been  piously  remembered, 
and  the  beloved  name  of  Yan-Hoarve  Rouzik,  mentioned 
last  of  all,  had  brought  tears  to  every  eye. 

The  wind  had  risen  again  as  Pierrek  and  Faik  bade  a 
fond  kendvo  to  their  mother,  and,  alone  for  the  first 
time  that  long,  eventful  day,  began  to  climb  towards 
their  pretty  rock  nest. 

Walking  quickly,  the  young  couple  threaded  the  little 

163 


GRAY    MIST 

zigzag  path  that  for  eight  hundred  yards  skirts  the  upper 
beach  and  then  meanders  up  the  flank  of  the  cliff.  Now 
and  then  the  frightened  scuttle  of  some  large  crab,  dis 
lodged  from  his  retreat  by  the  noise  of  their  steps  and 
retiring  at  full  speed  over  the  pebbles,  made  them  laugh, 
and  when  they  reached  the  first  cornice  they  paused  a 
moment  to  recover  their  breath,  for  the  wind  blew  sharply 
from  the  offing  and  the  ascent  was  steep.  Suddenly, 
from  the  darkness  of  a  near-by  fissure,  an  enormous  bird, 
dazzled  by  the  moon,  flew  literally  on  top  of  them,  start 
ling  Faik  so  that  had  it  not  been  for  Pierrek's  quick 
snatch  at  her  arm  she  would  have  gone  headlong  over 
the  edge. 

"A  booby1 — a  bad-luck  bird!"  she  cried,  with  a  little 
anguished  shiver.  "Oh,  Pierrek!  what  did  he  want?" 

"Nothing,  my  little  girl;  we  frightened  him,  that's  all," 
was  the  quiet  answer,  but  in  his  heart  of  hearts  the  young 
sailor  was  not  reassured,  for  these  huge  white  sea-fowl  of 
crazy  renown  are  considered  of  evil  omen  when  they  ap 
proach  one  too  closely. 

Thus  it  happened  that  they  approached  the  miller's 
gift  to  Faik  not  quite  so  blithely  as  they  had  left  Lanaik's 
door.  It  was  a  sumptuous  one  indeed  for  impecunious 
Brittany — a  queer,  irregular  old  house,  built  of  rough 
granite  on  rough  granite.  The  entrance  was  low-porched 
— there  were  two  steps  down  into  the  stone-flagged 
kitchen,  from  which  opened  two  more  large  rooms,  one 
on  each  side  (an  incredible  luxury  for  Kermarioker) ,  and 
another  long  apartment  at  the  back,  giving  on  a  small 
walled  garden.  The  roof  was  of  slate — another  almost 
unheard-of  thing  in  those  regions  —  the  furniture,  too, 
was  unusually  good;  one  or  two  oaken  chests  of  great 

1  White  gannet.     The  Breton  "Mor-waz"  (sea-goose). 
164 


GRAY    MIST 

antiquity  sent  from  Enez-Pers,  together  with  some  mas 
sive  tables  and  chairs,  a  couple  of  exquisitely  -  carved, 
silver-hinged  lits-clos,  a  ponderous  "grandfather's"  clock, 
with  a  bland  face  surrounded  by  very  creditably-painted 
pink  roses,  a  vaissellier  loaded  with  crockery  of  a  highly- 
decorative  order,  in  a  primitive  way  that  was  quaint  and 
attractive,  and  in  the  corner  of  honor  the  little  bride's 
gigantic  clothes  -  press,  filled  with  tall  piles  of  linen, 
heavy  woollen  blankets,  and  fine  new  garments,  not  to 
mention  several  deep-laid  rows  of  six-livre  silver  pieces 
that  composed  her  dot.  Such  magnificence  had  kept 
Kermarioker  gaping  with  amazement  for  a  week,  and 
Mari-Gwezek  had  gone  so  far  as  to  denounce  the  miller's 
lavishness  as  nothing  short  of  sinful!  Why,  the  place 
was  fit  for  a  queen,  she  had  declared  to  her  master,  arms 
akimbo,  face  crimson  with  indignation,  on  her  return 
from  visiting  it,  and  had  been  once  more  well  laughed  at 
for  her  pains! 

Just  now,  bathed  by  the  great,  silvery  moon  and 
fanned  by  the  swift,  cool  night  wind  that  rustled  the 
dew-spangled  leaves  of  the  currant  bushes  and  geraniums 
on  each  side  of  the  door,  it  looked  so  ideally  snug  that 
their  spirits  rose  once  more.  On  one  broad  window-ledge, 
wedged  securely  by  the  wooden  shutter-bar,  a  magnifi 
cent  fuchsia  in  full  bloom,  sent  yesterday  by  M.  Kornog, 
rang  its  welcome  from  a  hundred  little  tossing  bells  of 
white  and  rose,  and  with  a  little  exclamation  of  delight 
Faik  stopped  to  gaze  at  it. 

They  were  both  very  silent  as,  the  door  once  closed, 
they  turned  to  look  at  each  other.  Both  trembled  a 
little,  unable  as  yet  to  realize  the  fulness  of  their  happi 
ness.  Very  gently,  with  a  timidity  that  sat  well  on  this 
tall,  broad-shouldered,  bold-eyed  youth,  Pierrek  bent 
and  kissed  Faik.  The  beating  of  their  hearts  seemed  to 

165 


GRAY    MIST 

them  plainly  audible,  in  spite  of  the  grave  "tick-tack — 
tick-tack"  of  the  rose-garlanded  clock  in  the  corner;  out 
side,  the  great,  invisible  orchestra  of  wind  and  waves  con 
tinued  its  lonely  music,  and  suddenly  the  lover's  strong 
arms  closed  for  the  first  time  around  the  slender  form  of 
his  beloved. 


CHAPTER    XII 

Whatever  minds  unquiet  may  allege 
Anent  monotony  and  homely  ways, 

Though  change  doth  oft  restore  a  blunted  edge, 
The  happiest  are  uneventful  days. 

M.  M. 

"AND  so  you  are  perfectly  happy?  You  regret  noth 
ing,  and  do  not  blame  me  yet  for  having  yielded  to  you?" 

Tad  Kara"dek  turned  about  and  faced  his  companion 
with  a  questioning,  inflexible  eye.  He  and  Faik  were 
lounging  side  by  side  over  the  garden  wall  that  bright 
golden  afternoon  of  middle  November,  Miz  -  Du,  the 
Bretons  call  it — the  black  month — but  the  appellation  is 
not  always  correct. 

Faik  raised  her  mutinous  little  face,  and  looked  at  her 
uncle  with  an  air  of  lazy  amusement.  "I  thought  you 
wouldn't  need  to  ask  such  a  question!"  she  said,  in  her 
clear,  merry  voice.  "You  have  only  to  look  at  me  to 
be  reassured!" 

"The  Saints  know  you  do  not  inspire  one  with  pity!" 
he  replied,  hardly  able  to  refrain  from  laughing,  "and 
this  being  so,  I  suppose  I've  had  my  sail  for  nothing, 
since  happy  people  are  best  left  to  themselves! — Yes, 
you  look  uncommonly  well!" 

"Now  that's  what  I  call  unkind,  Uncle  Gwion!"  she 
cried,  reproachfully,  turning  deliberately  and  leaning  her 
back  against  the  wall  to  scan  him  better.  "Would  you 
sooner  have  found  me  here  in  tears  bemoaning  my  ill- 

167 


GRAY    MIST 

luck  in  marrying  the  handsomest  and  best  man  in  all 
Brittany?"  Her  face  was  serious,  but  her  eyes  danced 
with  fun. 

"No,"  he  said,  curtly  enough,  "I'm  glad  to  find  it's  all 
nonsense!" 

"Oh!"  Faik  exclaimed,  the  mirth  dying  out  of  her 
eyes,  "so  there's  been  some  one  trying  to  do  mischief! 
Who  is  it,  Tadik?  You  must  tell  me,  you  know!" 

The  miller,  upright  and  preternaturally  solemn  in  his 
fine  broadcloth  clothes,  was  evidently  cogitating  with 
himself  as  to  the  wisdom  of  silence.  He  was  vexed  to 
have  so  far  betrayed  himself:  he  the  prudent  man  par  ex 
cellence;  and  yet  perhaps  it  wonld  be  best  for  him  to 
make  a  clean  breast  of  the  matter  which  had  brought 
him  to  the  main-land  for  the  first  time  in  twenty  years. 

"Well — "  he  began,  hesitatingly,  after  a  pause,  during 
which  Faik  had  been  examining  him  keenly,  "as  a  matter 
of  fact  the  whole  thing  is  not  worth  whipping  a  cat  over, 
but  if  you  must  know,  some  one  of  the  family  has  told 
me  that  you  were  not  being  treated  well  here  in  Ker- 
marioker!" 

"Some  one  of  the  family!  It  must  be  Klaoda!"  she 
asserted,  her  dark,  straight  eyebrows  contracting  angrily. 

"No,  not  Klaoda;  we  don't  speak  excepting  when  we 
absolutely  cannot  avoid  it,  and,  what's  more,  I  haven't 
seen  him  much  since  your  marriage- day!" 

"A  fine  fool  he  made  of  himself  then!"  she  interrupted, 
contemptuously,  shrugging  her  shoulders.  "Oh!  I  often 
told  you  he's  a  black-souled  villain,  is  my  cousin  Klaoda!" 

"He  is  not  a  villain,  Faik,  but  a  very  unhappy  man, 
who,  when  all's  said  and  done,  loved  you  profoundly. 
However,  I  suppose  it  would  be  foolish  to  expect  pity 
from  you  in  that  quarter." 

"You  may  well  say  so!"  she  muttered,  through  her 

1 68 


GRAY    MIST 

white  teeth.  "Think  I'll  ever  forgive  him? — Not  I;  he 
was  too  ugly  for  that — and  without  the  least  reason!" 

Tad  Karadek  said  nothing.  Where  was  the  use  of  ex 
plaining?  "A  woman  in  love  has  no  mercy  for  other 
than  the  right  man,"  a  Breton  proverb  very  rightly 
states.  So,  indeed,  what  was  the  use?  He  drew  in  one 
whistling  breath  through  his  teeth,  as  one  may  who  re 
members  that  years  before  he  himself  has  been  seared 
by  the  same  feminine  injustice,  and  continued  to  look 
straight  in  front  of  him  at  the  glorious  prospect  of  gayly- 
capering  waves  and  cloudless  sky. 

Faik  was  tapping  the  ground  with  one  tiny  sabot,  wait 
ing  with  no  patience  at  all  for  him  to  speak. 

"I  believe,"  she  burst  out  at  last,  "somebody  has 
stolen  your  tongue  as  well  as  your  peace  of  mind,  Uncle 
Gwion.  How  long  do  you  think  I'm  going  to  stand  here 
on  hot  coals?" 

He  glanced  at  her  heightened  color  and  the  flashing 
annoyance  lighting  up  her  wonderful  eyes,  and  smiled. 

"And  now  you  are  laughing  at  me!"  she  said,  fiercely. 

"I,  Faik?" 

"Of  course  you  are!     Can't  you  tell  me  who  it  is?" 

"There  is  very  little  to  tell,  I  assure  you,  my  child. 
No  use  for  you  to  look  so  furious.  It's  simply  this: 
Madek  Judik,  my  head-man,  went  over  to  Sant-Padarn 
last  week  to  fetch  a  large  consignment  of  wheat,  and  while 
there  met  Ervoan  Le  Hurec,  your  cousin  Koader's  hus 
band,  who — 

"Ervoan  Le  Hurec!"  Faik  interposed.  "That  gold- 
laced  coxcomb!" 

"If  you  like!  Well,  that  'gold-laced  coxcomb'  told 
Madek  that  his  wife  was  greatly  incensed  at  your  mar 
riage;  and  further  declared  that  at  the  Pardon  of  Roz- 
canval  you  were  observed  to  look  very  ill  and  wretched; 

169 


GRAY    MIST 

that  your  husband,  who  had  been  drinking  too  much,  ill- 
used  and  scolded  you,  and  in  one  word — " 

"And  you  believed  that!  You,  my  shrewd  uncle 
Gwion!  I'm  sorry  for  you,  I  am,  if  you  did,  because  you 
must  be  losing  your  mind — I  ill-used  by  Pierrek — or  by 
any  one  else  for  the  matter  of  that — pshaw!" 

"I  did  not  believe  it,  Faik,  but  still  I  could  not  under 
stand  why  any  one  should  invent — absolutely  invent — 
such  a  thing!  That's  why  I  came  to-day;  just  to  see  if 
possibly  you  were  ill — or  disappointed,  perhaps,  at  your 
present  position — it's  a  change,  you  must  confess,  from 
Enez-Pers!" 

"Now  look  here,  Tadik,"  the  young  wife  said,  reso 
lutely  planting  herself  in  front  of  him,  with  shining  eyes 
and  an  indignant  toss  of  the  head,  "I'd  best  tell  you  once 
for  all,  that  I  am  the  happiest  woman  that  ever  drew 
breath!  Everybody  has  been  feasting  me  and  making 
much  of  me.  .  .  .  Even  Mari-Gwezek,  the  most  ill-tem 
pered  old  woman  in  Kermarioker,  is  all  smiles  when  I 
come  to  see  her  at  the  presbytery.  My  mother-in-law  is 
a  little  saint  .  .  .  and  as  to  Pierrek!"  She  clasped  her 
small  brown  hands  tightly  together  in  her  anxiety  to 
find  suitable  expressions  with  which  to  describe  the  be 
loved.  And  then  in  a  voice  vibrating  with  tenderness: 

"You  don't  know  what  that  gars  of  mine  is,  Tadik.  .  .  !" 
How  lovely  she  was!  What  was  it  that  made  her  so  dif 
ferent  from  all  others,  that  illumined  her  face  so  mar 
vellously?  What  eager  spirit  was  it  that  darkened  her 
eyes  to  that  chatoyant  shade  of  gemlike  green?  She 
put  one  hand  on  her  uncle's  sleeve,  and  looked  up  into 
his  grim  face. 

"My  Pierrek!  He  is  the  sunshine  of  my  life;  he  is  like 
a  part  of  myself,  the  heart  of  my  heart  and  soul  of  my 
soul!  Meek  he  certainly  is  not,  Uncle  Gwion,  thank  God 

170 


GRAY    MIST 

for  that;  but  violent,  or  harsh — and  a  drunkard — he! 
Why,  all  day  long,  while  he  is  out  at  sea,  his  tenderness 
stays  with  me,  the  tone  of  his  voice  is  in  my  memory — " 
She  paused,  extending  both  her  rounded  arms,  as  though 
this  paragon  of  all  the  virtues  were  standing  there  in  the 
flesh  ready  to  be  clasped  to  that  high-beating  heart  of 
hers,  and  then  let  them  gradually  fall  to  her  sides  with  a 
little  laugh  of  pure  joy. 

"What  a  sparrow's  brain  I've  got!"  she  cried,  "to  im 
agine  I  could  tell  it  all  to  you!" 

Open-mouthed,  the  amazed  miller  was  gazing  at  her. 
That  wild,  sweet  laughter  of  hers,  the  purest  and  most 
innocent  thing  in  the  world,  rang  in  his  ears  like  some 
long  -  yearned  -  for  music;  her  exquisite  genuineness,  her 
loyalty,  her  fearless  manner  of  speech,  made  her  irresist 
ibly  winsome  and  held  him  as  by  a  charm.  "A  lucky 
lad  that  Pierrek!"  he  thought,  and  aloud  he  said: 

"You  need  tell  no  more,  my  dear,  I  am  entirely  con 
vinced.  Only  I  would  advise  you  if  you  should  ever 
come  across  that  good  Koader  again  to  keep  her  under 
surveillance;  she  will  bear  watching!" 

"The  cat!"  Faik  muttered,  with  a  complete  change  of 
expression,  "I  never  could  bear  her!  I  can  remember 
well  how  she  used  to  bully  me  when  I  was  quite  little. 
During  mother's  last  illness  she  managed  everything,  and 
— oh!  how  unpleasant  and  ill-tempered  she  was!" 

"I  dare  say  she  is  so  still,"  the  miller  said,  dryly. 
"She's  a  dark-eyed  Bretonne,  and  that  invariably  means 
nothing  good!  But  tell  me,  Faik,  you  are  not  going  to 
any  more  Pardons  just  now,  are  you?" 

"Why?  Is  there  any  harm  in  that?"  the  girl  asked  in 
astonishment. 

Tad  Karadek  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  looked 
rather  embarrassed. 

i»  171 


GRAY    MIST 

"No,  of  course  not.  What  harm  could  there  be? 
Still,  so  young  a  bride  as  yourself,  you  know.  ..." 

"Are  Pardons  meant  only  for  old  and  staid  people, 
cripples  and  beggars?"  Faik  demanded.  "I  should  have 
thought  that  young  people  like  Pierrek  and  myself  were 
just  the  ones  to  enjoy  a  fete-day;  but  you  are  of  a  differ 
ent  opinion,  it  seems,  Tadik.  Has  Koader  advised  that 
we  should  never  dance,  or  sing,  or  laugh  any  more,  my 
poor  lad  and  me?" 

"Oh,  curse  Koader!"  the  miller  roughly  exclaimed, 
"I'm  not  thinking  of  her  at  all,  but  if  you  must  know 
that  too,  there  is  ...  well,  a  feeling  of  ...  of  irritation 
against  your  husband  ...  of  jealousy  if  you  like  .  .  . 
that,  provided  you  met  some  of  the  young  men  from 
Enez-Pers,  might  lead  to  another  .  .  .  mix  up!  Now  do 
you  understand?" 

"And  do  you  think,  Uncle  Gwion,  that  I  am  going  to 
make  Pierrek  spend  his  life  trying  to  avoid  those  mur 
derous  ruffians  of  yours  ...  oh  well,  you  don't  know  me 
then!  I  hope  they'll  meet  one  of  these  days  when  the 
chaloupe's  crew  is  with  us.  Then  they'll  get  their  pun 
ishment!  I've  been  aching  to  see  it  happen  ever  since 
my  wedding-day!" 

"I  never  knew  that  you  could  be  so  savage,  Faik!"  her 
uncle  remonstrated.  "You  little  demon!  What's  come 
to  you,  anyhow?" 

"Come  to  me?"  she  echoed.  "Sense;  plain,  ordinary 
common-sense,  that's  all.  I'll  denounce  them  as  danger 
ous  characters,  your  young  men,  Uncle  Gwion,  if  you 
can't  keep  them  in  order — not  to  the  police,  of  course — 
you  know  that  I'm  not  an  informer  nor  a  traitor,  but  to 
the  gars  here,  and  then  we'll  have  a  regular  pitched  battle 
— I'd  like  that!"  she  concluded,  licking  her  rosy  lips  in 
joyful  anticipation  of  coming  carnage. 

172 


GRAY    MIST 

"As  I  hope  for  a  place  in  Paradise,"  the  miller  said, 
stepping  back  to  look  at  her,  "I  don't  know  what  to 
think  of  you  to-day,  Faik!  You  certainly  surprise  me. 
What  in  the  world  do  you  want  to  fan  a  smouldering 
feud  like  that  for?  Once  started,  it  would  be  a  slaugh 
ter  and  butchery  that  nothing  could  stop,  not  even  I — 
not  even  your  friend  the  Recteur,  who  has  got  a  famous 
grip — not  even  St.  Kaour  himself,  if  he  came  down  from 
Heaven  on  purpose!" 

"Well,  then,  you  must  prevent  your  C'hlan  from  in 
terfering  with  my  husband,  that's  all,  Tadik,  because  I 
won't  have  him  bothered — never  mind  at  what  cost. 
I've  made  up  my  mind  to  that  anyway!" 

Her  eyes  were  full  of  rage,  her  little  fists  were  clinched, 
her  proud,  red-gold  head  was  erect,  and  in  her  young 
voice  that  always  reminded  her  uncle  of  crystal-clear 
water,  there  were  surprising  ripples  of  concentrated  fury. 
He  stared  at  her  glowing  face,  for  the  second  time  in  an 
hour  completely  nonplussed. 

"I  must  go  now!"  he  said,  abruptly.  "I'd  quarrel 
with  you  if  I  stayed  any  longer,  I'm  afraid,  Faik,  and, 
moreover,  I  still  have  to  go  and  visit  your  mother-in-law 
and  Monsieur  le  Recteur,  so  good-bye  for  the  present. 
I'll  be  back  in  an  hour!" 

Something  in  the  old  man's  face  disturbed  the  girl,  and 
she  intercepted  him,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  path. 
"Was  I  cross?"  she  asked,  naively.  "You  did  not  think 
it  was  with  you,  Uncle  Gwion,  did  you?  I  wouldn't  hurt 
you  for  all  the  treasures  of  Ste.  Anne  d'Auray!" 

What  cared  Tad  Karadek  now  for  past  disappoint 
ments,  present  anxieties,  or  possible  future  mishaps! 
When  his  little  Faik  spoke  like  that  the  rest  of  the  world 
mattered  nothing  at  all.  "Child,  child,"  he  said,  forget 
ting  his  momentary  annoyance,  forgetting  his  turbulent 

173 


GRAY    MIST 

C'hlan,  "you  never  can  hurt  me  whatever  you  say  or  do. 
Your  old  uncle,  my  little  girl,  loves  nothing  in  the  world 
but  you,  as  you  very  well  know,  and  his  home  is  always 
as  ready  for  you  as  his  heart,  feuds  or  no  feuds,  remem 
ber  that!"  He  patted  her  shoulder  tenderly,  and  in  an 
instant  was  striding  down  the  cliff  path,  Faik  looking 
after  him  with  eyes  full  of  tears. 

"I'm  sorry!"  she  murmured.  "I'm  sorry  ...  I  shouldn't 
have  worried  him,  poor  old  man  .  .  .  it's  too  bad  .  .  .  the 
first  time  he  has  come  to  see  us,  too!  Never  mind, 
though  .  .  .  Pierrek  will  make  everything  all  right  with 
him  to-night.  It's  nearly  time  for  him  to  be  coming 
home,"  she  concluded,  with  a  sudden  smile,  "so  I  must 
make  myself  tidy." 

Running  into  the  house,  she  chose  another  guimpe, 
finer  yet  in  texture,  and  more  intricately  embroidered 
than  the  one  she  had  worn  during  working-hours,  put  on 
a  new  apron,  gave  a  few  deft  little  pats  and  strokes  to  her 
snowy  coiffe,  and  then  sprang  blithely  into  the  sunshine 
again,  her  small  sabots  clattering  merrily  on  the  rocky 
path  as  she  ran.  She  went  swiftly  down  the  narrow 
track,  jumping  from  stone  to  stone,  afraid  to  be  late. 
And  late  she  was,  for  just  as  she  was  about  to  reach  the 
level  road  Pierrek,  preceded  by  a  cheerful  view-halloo, 
hove  in  sight,  a  fish-basket  slung  on  his  shoulder. 

"You  lazy  girl!"  he  laughed,  coming  straight  up  to  her 
through  the  tangle  of  knee-high  sea-thistles  that  flour 
ished  on  the  upper  beach,  "what  kept  you?" 

Faik,  almost  ready  to  cry  with  vexation,  was  hanging 
her  pretty  head. 

"What!"  Pierrek  laughed.  "Pouting,  are  you,  Ma 
dame  Pierrek  Rouzik,  and  just  to-day,  when  we've 
hauled  in  such  a  good  catch!"  Then  suddenly  raising 
his  deep  eyes  to  hers,  as  she  stood  perched  on  the  last 


GRAY    MIST 

bowlder  of  the  out-cropping  spur  a  little  above  him,  he 
threw  one  arm  around  her  and  lifted  her  down  as  easily 
as  a  baby.  "Anything  amiss,  Faik-gez?"  he  asked,  anx 
iously,  still  retaining  his  hold  of  her. 

"No,  no!"  she  said,  quickly,  with  one  large  tear  in  each 
eye,  and  a  radiant  smile  on  her  lips,  a  veritable  April 
face,  and  a  surprisingly  seductive  one,  "it's  only  that 
I'm  so  angry  to  have  missed  being  on  the  jetty  when  you 
arrived.  It's  all  Uncle  Gwion's  fault!" 

"Uncle  Gwion!"  Pierrek  exclaimed,  much  surprised. 
"You  don't  mean  that  he  is  actually  here!" 

"Yes,  worse  luck!"  she  grumbled,  leaning  against  him. 
"At  least  he  is  calling  on  Monsieur  le  Recteur  and  on 
mother  now — but  he  was  with  me  until  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  ago — and  I  didn't  think  it  was  so  late!" 

"Uncle  Gwion!  Fancy  his  leaving  his  old  island  to 
come  and  see  my  little  witch!  But  you  always  work 
miracles,  Faik!" 

They  had  turned  now,  and  were  walking  slowly  up  the 
path,  he  with  his  arm  still  about  her,  she  prattling  away 
with  an  indescribable  mirth  and  sweetness  in  her  voice, 
as  she  told  him  all  the  little  events  of  the  day,  carefully 
omitting,  however,  any  reference  to  Cousin  Koader,  or 
Cousin  Klaoda  and  his  band  of  supporters.  Well  did  she 
know  that  if  Pierrek  were  once  convinced  that  the  ani 
mosity  of  which  he  had  had  such  marked  proofs  on  his 
wedding-day  was  still  as  keenly  alive,  nothing  could  pre 
vent  him  from  collaring  the  first  man  from  Enez-Pers 
he  met.  He  was  of  hard  material,  was  this  youthful 
husband  of  hers,  of  the  material  that  never  gives  in,  but 
dies  fighting  and — cursing,  quite  unafraid  of  meeting  its 
Maker,  and  game  to  the  last.  Now,  in  spite  of  her  bold 
statements  to  Uncle  Gwion,  deep  down  in  her  heart  she 
dreaded  to  endanger  her  Pierrek's  life.  Therefore,  un- 


GRAY    MIST 

like  the  generality  of  women,  she  beat  down  the  tempta 
tion  of  telling  all  she  knew — if  not  more — and  kept  her 
mouth  shut.  Perhaps,  she  thought,  the  whole  thing 
would  gradually  blow  over;  time  would  bring  forgetful- 
ness  and  peace,  and  Klaoda  cease  from  keeping  his  boon- 
companions'  resentment  at  fever-heat.  Nevertheless,  she 
did  not  feel  quite  easy  in  her  mind. 

In  two  weeks  from  that  time  the  Pardon  of  Kermarioker 
was  to  take  place;  a  grand  occasion  to  which  both  she 
and  Pierrek  had  been  looking  forward  with  the  glee  of 
the  children  they  still  were,  and  one  which,  thank  the 
Saints,  the  most  timorous  prudence  could  not  prompt  her 
to  avoid.  No  one  in  Kermarioker  ever  stayed  away 
from  its  greatest  fete! 

Four  days  before  this  auspicious  occasion  the  Stereden- 
Ab-Vor  was  on  her  way  to  harbor  after  a  wretched  catch, 
rolling  to  a  heavy,  sullen  swell,  and  creaking  dismally 
throughout  all  her  middle-aged  ossature.  The  time  was, 
maybe,  two  hours  past  sundown — they  had  been  much 
delayed,  hauling  in  a  refractory  net — a  storm  was  threat 
ening,  and  the  sky,  over  where  the  moon  should  have 
been  about  to  rise  had  circumstances  permitted,  was  get 
ting  as  black  as  a  pall.  There  was  a  stiff  breeze  blowing, 
too,  from  the  nor'west,  the  huge  bay  was  filled  with  a 
chaos  of  short  tumbling  seas,  and  when  the  rain  began 
to  fall  in  large  cold  drops,  like  splashes  out  of  a  bucket, 
Pierrek,  bending  over  the  tiller,  swore  aloud!  It  seemed 
evident  that  a  good  deal  of  tacking  would  have  to  be 
gone  through  before  the  Kermarioker  lights  hove  in 
sight,  and  the  thought  of  Faik  worrying  at  home  pinched 
his  heart. 

Suddenly  the  gray  darkness  thickened  and  took  shape 
a  few  fathoms  ahead,  and  another  chaloupe  drove  down 
upon  the  Stereden,  shearing  so  close  to  windward  it 

176 


GRAY    MIST 

seemed  a  positive  miracle  that  a  collision  should  have 
been  avoided. 

Pierrek's  presence  of  mind  in  jamming  the  tiller  down 
just  in  the  nick  of  time  had  saved  his  boat,  but  he  was  in 
a  towering  rage,  and  standing  up  he  reeled  off  a  swift 
string  of  objurgations  among  which  the  names  of  many 
Saints  and  more  devils  hurtled  with  convincing  force. 

1 '  Why  the did  they  carry  no  light  ?  What  murder 

was  afoot  in  their  —  —  of  a  tank  ?"  etc.  All  this  bursting 
from  his  throat  as  he  balanced  to  and  fro  to  avoid  the 
kicks  of  the  viciously  bucking  waves  that  threatened  to 
tip  him  headlong  over  the  side. 

Almost  had  the  strange  craft  leaped  away  into  the 
gloom.  But  the  Fates  could  not  let  so  promising  a 
chance  of  trouble  slip  by,  for,  during  one  of  the  down 
ward  plunges  of  the  Stereden,  whose  mast  wagged  rak- 
ishly  to  every  swell,  a  yellow  pencil  of  light  from  the  sway 
ing  hurricane-lamp  caught  Pierrek  right  in  the  face,  and 
a  loud  howl  of  recognition  rose  from  the  fast  disappear 
ing  unknown. 

' '  Rouzik !  Rouzik !  It's  Rouzik ! ' '  came  in  yells  through 
the  foam-lit  dusk,  and  in  an  instant  half  a  dozen  huge  oars 
thrown  hastily  out,  and  moving  out  of  time  like  the  legs 
of  some  ungainly  insect  suddenly  aroused,  began  to  back 
water  in  the  craziest  possible  fashion. 

"What  ails  them?"  Pierrek  shouted  to  Nedeldk  Houarn, 
who,  bending  half-across  the  side,  was  peering  hungrily 
into  the  thickening  night. 

"Smugglers  from  Enez-Pers,  by  God!"  bawled  the  red 
headed  second,  in  a  voice  that  rang  across  the  charging 
breakers  like  the  bellow  of  a  mad  bull.  Indeed,  in  a  mo 
ment  more,  what  with  the  quarrel  of  the  elements,  and 
that  of  the  humans  tossing  about  in  their  respective 
cockleshells,  there  was  enough  noise  to  supply  a  dozen 

177 


GRAY    MIST 

battle-fields.  Any  ordinary  beings  would  have  subsided 
and  let  their  private  disagreements  drop  under  such  a 
combination  of  circumstances.  These  did  not.  They 
faced  one  another  with  scorching  tongues,  with  battering 
oars  and  truculent  boat-hooks.  None  were  amateurs  at 
that  sort  of  game,  and  as  to  the  smugglers,  they  were  all 
men  who  for  years  had  carried  their  lives  in  their  hands, 
and  had  never  set  sail  without  risking  a  chance  of  landing 
amid  a  bristle  of  guns  and  cutlasses.  Nevertheless,  the 
crew  and  Patron  of  the  Stereden  held  their  own,  and 
thumped  their  adversaries  into  a  disorganized  heap 
again  and  again,  viciously  using  every  available  weapon 
of  attack  and  defence  .  .  .  and  there  were  casualties! 

For  a  moment  or  two  during  the  hottest  part  of  the 
encounter  the  flanks  of  the  two  smacks  ground  and 
bumped  against  each  other  to  the  pitchings  of  the 
waves,  and  in  one  of  the  bigger  rolls  the  Stereden's  bow 
sprit  fouled  the  other's  loosely  swinging  tiller,  snapping 
it  in  two  like  a  carrot.  It  was  then  that  heavy  stone 
water -jugs  and  brandy  -  bottles  were  used  as  missiles, 
splintering  against  animate  or  inanimate  matter  as 
chance  decreed.  This  ammunition  exhausted,  as  a 
heavy  sea  flung  them  apart  once  more  Pierrek  jumped 
to  his  own  helm  and  did  his  level  best  to  ram  the  dis 
abled  enemy,  but  just  at  that  moment  the  squall  burst 
in  all  its  fury  and  the  fight  was  indeed  over.  Caught  un 
prepared,  both  war  centres,  after  nearly  capsizing  at  the 
first  stroke  of  the  blast,  went  lunging  and  squattering 
helplessly  during  several  anxious  minutes,  when  each 
found  itself  alone  with  a  howling  darkness,  and  glad 
enough  to  be  on  top  of  the  water  at  all. 

It  was  only  when  they  had  secured  a  breathing  spell, 
that  Pierrek  and  two  of  the  equipage  discovered  that  they 
were  wounded — not  seriously,  as  luck  would  have  it,  but 

178 


GRAY    MIST 

still  all  three  were  dripping  with  good  red  blood.  Pierrek 
from  a  jagged  scalp  wound  inflicted  by  a  flying  bottle, 
and  Laumec  and  Fantek,  two  strapping  lads  of  nine 
teen  and  twenty,  from  boat  -  hook  punctures.  What 
would  Faik  and  Lanaik  say  ? 

The  air  grew  thicker  and  thicker  with  spray  and  driv 
ing  rain,  the  sea  with  battling  hills  of  blackness  streaked 
with  glimmering  white,  but  bruised  and  bleeding  and 
sore  though  they  were,  the  lads  from  Kermarioker  fought 
their  way  home,  singing  as  loud  as  the  wind  permitted 
an  old  Chouan  song,  full  of  fire  and  flame,  and  brim 
stone  and  gore,  as  good  Breton  gars  should  do. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

Drowsing  upon  the  heath  in  order  fair 

Gray  Druid  stones  outwatched  the  centuries, 

Some  sternly  straight,  some  nodding  here  and  there 
Above  the  gorse  that  hid  their  granite  knees, 
Taking  the  sun-warmth  and  the  wafting  breeze, 

And  some,  forgetful  of  the  charge  with  pain 

They  once  had  kept,  mid  vines  and  blackberries, 

Lulled  by  the  lark  and  throstle,  long  had  lain; 

Wrapped  in  an  ancient  dream,  nor  e'er  should  rise  again. 

Perchance  the  last,  of  all  that  company, 

Were  wisest,  for  when  all  doth  change  and  fade 
Why  keep  unstained  a  useless  loyalty? 

Better  by  far  to  be  in  slumber  laid, 

Than  still  enduring,  old,  yet  unafraid, 
To  mark  the  pathos  of  forgotten  things! 

They  who  survive  new  times  are  ever  made 
To  serve  new  masters — lo,  where  ivy  clings 
A  Christian  Saint  enthroned  amid  the  mystic  rings! 

M.  M. 

UPON  the  wide  Lande  —  that  mysterious  waste  of 
whin  and  gorse  and  heather  whereon  so  many  chapters 
of  Brittany's  history  have  been  unrolled — about  two 
miles  down  the  cliff-girt  coast  to  the  south  of  Kermari- 
oker,  stands  a  huge  statue  of  St.  Herve,  surrounded,  curi 
ously  enough,  by  an  inner  semicircle  and  an  outer  far- 
stretching  range  of  wonderful  Druidic  stones. 

This  mixture  of  Christianity  with  what  preceded  it  is 
by  no  means  unusual  there,  and  the  gray  ness  of  granite 
crucifixes  melts  well  into  that  of  those  older  religious 

180 


GRAY    MIST 

monuments  that  give  to  unchangeable  Armorica  so 
unique  a  cachet. 

To  -  day  the  towering  statue  was  surrounded  by  a 
canopy  composed  of  russet  sails,  and  surrounded  on 
three  sides  by  a  drapery  of  corn-flower  blue  fishing-nets 
midriff  ed  by  crossed  oars,  while  a  close-linked  chap  let  of 
anchors  ringed  in  the  space  where  Monsieur  le  Recteur 
would  presently  stand,  clad  in  his  finest  chasuble  and 
stole,  to  pronounce  the  benediction.  Great  clusters  of 
Huel-Var,1  the  immemorially-reverenced  mistletoe,  held 
in  place  at  St.  Herve's  feet  long  fringes  of  golden  genesta 
and  rose-hued  v.tild  verbena,  which,  as  every  one  knows, 
is  a  blossom  consecrated  to  this  particular  Saint,  and  a 
great  charm  against  all  evil  things. 

A  slight  haze  lay  over  the  landes,  but  already  the 
early  mist  was  lifting  itself  away  at  the  rising  sun's 
behest,  and  in  earth  and  air  and  ocean  there  was  a 
subtle  buoyancy  which,  if  it  told  of  coming  winter,  had 
nothing  wintry  about  it  as  yet. 

Nobody  was  near,  not  even  the  equipe  which  had 
worked  all  night  long  over  St.  Herve's  bower,  only  from 
the  lip  of  the  falaise  two  coast-guards  might  have  been 
seen  pacing  backward  and  forward  upon  the  beach  with 
a  measured  tread  acquired  at  sea,  looking  keenly  about 
them,  for  on  Pardon  days  boats  from  all  the  little  smug 
glers'  islands  near  and  far  congregate  here,  and  eyes  of 
additional  vigilance  are  imperatively  needed. 

As  the  morning  wore  on  black  specks  no  bigger  than 
sea-birds  began  far  away  to  dot  the  paths  that  wound 
across  the  heath,  some  singly,  others  in  serried  ranks  like 
files  of  gigantic  migrating  ants,  some  surmounted  by  flut 
tering  little  squares  of  brilliant  color  that  were  banners 

1  "Plant  that  comes  from  the  sky,"  otherwise  "Heavenly 
Grass." 

181 


GRAY    MIST 

and  oriflammes  ^sparkling  with  gold  and  silver  embroid 
ery,  some  again  bristling  with  raised  pen-baz  showing  no 
thicker  than  fine  wire  at  such  a  range,  or  else  with  huge 
blesse'd  candles  unlighted  as  yet,  but  creating  a  glancing, 
moving  blur  of  whiteness  as  their  bearers  slowly  ad 
vanced. 

On  the  opposite  side  also  a  multitude  of  sails,  white, 
red,  and  tawny,  came  flecking  the  wide  blue  shield  of 
waters,  and  presently  the  crowd  was  arriving  by  dozens, 
scores,  and  hundreds.  The  immediate  objective-point  for 
the  vast  majority  of  the  pilgrims  was  a  deep  fold  of  the 
landes  half  a  mile  to  the  rear  of  the  great  statue,  where 
all  night  long  preparations  had  been  going  on  for  the 
mundane  attractions  of  the  festival,  and  swarms  of  en 
terprising  individuals  were  now  putting  the  finishing- 
touches  to  booths  of  every  size  and  description,  contain 
ing  multifarious  provision  for  the  amusement  and  re 
freshment  of  the  beholder  and  the  depletion  of  his  pocket. 
Most  of  the  shows  would  not  be  open  till  a  little  later, 
but  the  vendors'  stalls  were  ready,  and  hot  bread  and 
cakes,  pears  and  apples  and  plums,  huge  brown  loaves 
marked  with  a  cross  raised  in  sugared  dough,  golden 
grapes  and  purple,  onions  in  long  festoons  and  pyramids 
of  figs,  cheap  jewelry,  medals,  rosaries,  pottery  ranging 
from  round-bellied  marmites  to  statuettes  of  St.  Herv6 
brightly  gilded  and  colored,  could  all  be  obtained  there 
for  a  few  sous.  The  newly-arrived  were  already  chaffer 
ing,  laughing,  and  haggling  over  these  articles  of  trade, 
vituperating,  when  the  prices  failed  to  meet  the  ex 
igencies  of  their  purses,  in  at  least  five  different  sorts  of 
Breton,  for,  apart  from  the  fundamental  "Leonard"  of 
Finisterre,  "Cornouaillais,"  "Trecorois,"  "Vannetais," 
and  their  many  sub  divisionary  dialects  flew  around  at  a 
frantic  rate.  Commend  me  to  a  usually  silent  people 

182 


GRAY    MIST 

when  some  great  occasion  or  emotion  breaks  down  the 
bonds  of  their  taciturnity! 

Already  an  army  of  beggars  and  cripples  had  taken 
possession  of  every  path -edge,  and  here  and  there  some 
sightless  wretches  wandered  about  amid  the  crowd  like 
souls  in  torment,  violently  tapping  the  ground  with  their 
long  sticks,  and  droning  out  in  deafening  nasal  tones  in 
vocations  to  charity  of  which  at  present  no  one  took  any 
notice.  Their  hour  would  come  later  at  the  feet  of  St. 
Herve  the  Compassionate! 

The  costumes  to-day  were  really  wonderful  in  color 
and  variety,  comprising  an  almost  complete  armorial  of 
the  Breton  peasantry,  and  ranging  from  the  short  crim 
son  petticoats,  brilliantly-flowered  aprons,  and  close-fit 
ting  gold-filigreed  coiffes  of  Pont-1'Abbe,  to  the  flying 
broidered  jacket  and  wide-winged  henin  of  Morlaix,  or  the 
long-fringed  silk  shawl  and  thickly-pleated  skirts  of  the 
women  of  Vitre.  From  Plogonnec  came  men  in  wide 
white  breeches  and  blue  cloth  jackets  with  a  "Holy 
Dove"  superbly  worked  in  yellow  floss  in  the  middle  of 
the  back,  and  waistcoats  constellated  by  row  after  row 
of  fleur-de-lyse  silver  buttons.  Salt- workers  there  were, 
too,  proudly  flashing  their  scarlet  jackets  and  multi 
colored  chenille  hat  -  ornaments  in  the  sunshine,  while 
white  -  shirted  metayers,1  in  sober,  velvet -edged  browns 
and  blacks,  lounged  lazily  around  with  their  womankind, 
who  seemed  almost  too  puritanical  under  their  nunlike 
caps  of  plain  lawn. 

Groups  of  sailors  and  fishermen,  blue-jerseyed  and  red- 
sashed,  with  dark-blue  berets  of  exactly  the  same  shade  as 
the  cloth  of  their  long,  "bell-muzzled"  trousers,  were  an 
almost  pleasant  relief  to  the  gorgeousness  of  most  of  the 

1  Farmers. 
183 


GRAY    MIST 

people  present,  and  imparted  a  singular  jauntiness  to  the 
scene.  Most  of  these  stopped,  transfixed  by  admiration 
and  covetousness,  before  the  pink-and-white-striped  tent 
of  a  little,  shrunken,  brown  old  man  who  was  selling 
glazed  images  of  popular  maritime  Saints,  to  be  nailed  to 
the  main-masts  of  fishing-smacks.  In  a  feeble,  cracked, 
but  extraordinarily-insinuating  voice  he  cried  aloud  his 
wares: 

"Come,  children,  buy  a  two-sous  St.  Gildas  .  .  .  it's 
for  nothing,  as  you  see,  and  will  insure  fine  weather 
and  no  head-winds  ...  or  would  you  rather  pay  thirty 
centimes  and  own  one  of  these  glorious  images  of  St. 
Peter,  Father  of  the  Holy  Church,  shipwrecked  in  the 
furious  waters  of  the  Orient  but  conquering  their  ferocity, 
as  you  also  will  be  enabled  to  do,  my  sons,  if  you  possess 
this  precious  memento.  .  .  .  Here  is  another,  all  blue  and 
gold.  It  represents,  as  you  can  see  for  yourselves,  our 
good  St.  Kadoc's  return  to  Brittany.  Behold  the  glitter 
ing  mitre  and  the  solid  gold  crozier  by  the  aid  of  which 
he  rowed  himself  across  the  tossing  main.  .  .  .  And  now 
let  me  show  you  St.  Tugduald,  who — "  On  and  on  ram 
bled  the  aged  story-teller,  the  big  children  in  berets  listen 
ing  delightedly  and  making  extensive  purchases,  which 
they  refused  energetically  to  let  him  wrap  up,  so  that 
they  might  not  for  an  instant  lose  sight  of  their  new 
treasures. 

A  little  farther  on  a  red-and-gold  wheel  of  fortune 
whirled  ceaselessly  beneath  impatient  hands,  and  every 
time  a  prize  was  secured  by  one  of  the  circle  surrounding 
it  shouts  of  joy  went  up  to  the  very  skies.  Right  in  front 
of  this  stood  Pierrek  and  Faik,  hand  in  hand,  as  usual, 
she  exquisite  in  her  wedding-habit  and  lace  guimpe,  her 
pretty  head  erect,  her  dimpled  cheeks  deliciously  flushed — 
a  living,  breathing  poem  of  Brittany,  made  woman,  he 

184 


GRAYMIST 

handsomer  and  more  nonchalant  than  ever,  with  that 
curious  little  disdainful  curl  of  the  lips  that  became  him 
so  well,  and  that  superb  way  of  squaring  his  broad 
shoulders,  above  the  level  of  most  heads  there. 

Four  times  Faik  twirled  the  fortune- wheel,  and  four 
times  she  won,  her  last  venture  making  her  the  enrapt 
ured  possessor  of  a  really  very  pretty  white  satin  ban 
nerette  hemmed  in  soft  pale  green,  with  a  beautiful 
woman's  face  painted  upon  it.  How  so  dainty  and  dis 
tinguished  a  bibelot  had  found  its  way  there  must  re 
main  a  mystery,  but  there  it  was,  and,  stepping  out  of 
the  crowd,  Faik  drew  Pierrek  to  an  isolated  corner  to 
look  at  it  more  closely. 

"Oh!  Pierrek,  look,  look;  she  has  green  eyes  like 
mine!"  the  delighted  girl  exclaimed,  "and  copper-colored 
hair,  too!  Ma  Doue,1  Ma  Doue,  who  can  it  be?  A 
queen,  think  you,  or  perhaps  our  Duchess  Anne  herself 
when  she  was  quite  young?" 

With  a  laugh  Pierrek  bent  over  her  shoulder  to  inspect 
the  marvel,  and  gave  a  little  gasp. 

' '  A  hes,  breman~Mary-Morgan 
E  skend  an  oabr,  d'an  noz,  a  gan  I". 

he  slowly  deciphered  from  the  gilt  lettering  beneath. 
"Ahes2  herself!"  he  said,  in  an  awed  tone;  "but  yes, 
Faik,  she  looks  very  much  like  you — oh!  very  much!" 
and  stepping  back  a  pace  he  gazed  alternately  at  the 
fancy  portrait  of  King  Grallon's  siren-daughter  and  at 
his  own  bonnie  little  wife.  "It  is  very  strange!"  he  mur 
mured,  and  indeed  so  it  was,  for  had  Faik  posed  for  it 
the  likeness  could  not  have  been  more  complete.  Those 
sparkling  emerald  eyes  on  the  small  banner  looked  as 

1  Mon  Dieu.  J  Pronounced  Ah-hess. 

'85 


GRAY    MIST 

frankly  and  fearlessly  at  Pierrek  as  Faik's  own,  the  same 
mischievous  smile  lurked  on  the  rosy  lips  of  both.  The 
short,  decided,  delicately-chiselled  nose  of  the  girl  at  his 
side  was  repeated  in  the  portrait,  and  the  diadem  of 
gemmed  stars  rested  not  more  royally  on  Ahes's  rutilant 
locks  than  did  the  lace  coiffe  with  its  slender  circlet  of 
gold  tissue  on  Faik's  wavy  bandeaux. 

Pierrek  turned  his  troubled  eyes  upon  Faik  with  pained 
surprise;  the  coincidence,  ridiculous  as  it  seemed,  hurt 
him  keenly.  His  Faik — and  Ahes,  the  Lady  of  Ker-Ys, 
whose  wanton  graces  had  brought  about  the  doom  of 
that  glorious  city!  Had  he  then  married  one  of  those 
fatal  women  in  whose  veins  is  supposed  to  linger  some 
strain  of  the  siren's  blood?  All  the  country-side  knew 
and  believed  the  ancient  story  that  tells  of  the  love  of  a 
bold  gars  of  Finisterre  for  a  surpassingly  lovely  creature 
caught  one  moonlit  night  in  his  nets,  and  borne  in  his 
arms  to  his  little  granite  home.  Of  that  unhallowed 
union,  which  every  night  brought  them  together  again, 
until  dawn  forced  the  Morgan  to  disappear  once  more 
beneath  the  waves — for  woman  she  could  be  during  the 
hours  of  darkness  only — a  child  was  born,  a  baby  girl, 
with  hair  like  the  dawn  and  eyes  that  held  all  the  chang 
ing  tints  of  the  sea.  Forgetful  of  her  vows,  the  radiant 
young  mother  had  failed  thereafter  to  return  to  Ahes's 
watery  domain,  and  death  had  been  her  punishment. 
The  fisher-lad,  crazed  by  a  grief  too  great  to  bear,  had — 
so  the  story  went — thrown  himself,  holding  all  that  re 
mained  of  his  beloved,  from  the  topmost  crag  of  the  grim 
falaise  that  overhangs  the  Infern  of  Gweledigez  (Hell  of 
the  Apparition),  and  the  little  child,  baptized  and  cared 
for  by  a  wandering  disciple  of  St.  Gwenole,  became  the 
ancestress  of  a  long  line  of  strangely  beautiful  women, 
who  always  brought  ill-fortune  to  the  men  they  loved. 

186 


GRAY    MIST 

Pierrek  shuddered,  as  swift  as  lightning  as  all  this  flashed 
upon  his  mind.  Faik's  loveliness  had  always  seemed  to 
him  scarcely  human  .  .  .  was  she  then  .  .  .!  He  turned 
abruptly  away,  his  heart  aching  curiously,  but  the  next 
instant,  filled  with  shame  and  remorse  that  even  for 
a  passing  second  he  had  been  a  traitor  to  his  love, 
he  drew  close  to  her  again.  Fortunately,  Faik,  poring 
over  her  pretty  prize,  had  noticed  nothing  of  all  this. 
She  was  racking  her  brains  to  account  for  this  mys 
terious  resemblance  between  herself  and  the  great 
and  dread  Ahes  —  a  very  real  personage  indeed  to 
all  coast  -  Bretons,  and  one  very  constantly  in  their 
minds. 

The  crowd  upon  the  heath  had  by  now  thickened  to  a 
great  concourse,  and  was  forming  into  ranks,  for  the  mo 
ment  of  the  "procession"  had  arrived,  and  interminable 
trains  of  men  and  women  holding  huge  white-and-gold 
tapers  and  waving  banners  aloft  were  moving  towards 
the  distant  statue,  chanting  as  they  went  the  Hymn  to 
St.  Herve.  There  was  much  confusion  and  jostling  at 
first  as  the  people  sought  to  fall  into  step  and  walk  in 
quadruple  lines,  and  they  made  a  sea  of  swaying,  bal 
ancing,  shifting  color  between  the  immovable  gray 
masses  of  the  stately  menhirs  that  was  extremely  pict 
uresque  and  dazzling.  The  beggars  and  cripples,  mo 
mentarily  forgotten  in  this  huge  mix-up,  and  afraid  to 
be  trampled  upon,  loudly  lamented  their  inability  to  do 
the  trampling  themselves,  vociferating  a  continual  "En 
hano  Sant  Hodrve!  .  .  .  en  hano  Sant  Hodrve!1  .  .  .  spare 
us,  spare  us!"  Their  supplications,  however,  were  utterly 
drowned  in  the  heaven-filling  clamor  of  thousands  upon 
thousands  singing  to  an  ancient  warlike  tune: 

1  "In  St.  Herve's  name!  ...  in  St.  Herve's  name!" 
'3  187 


GRAY    MIST 

"N  'hen  eus  ket  en  Breiz,  n'hen  eus  ket  unan, 
N  'hen  eus  ket  eur  zani  evcl  Sant  Hodrvc,"  1 

and  nothing  was  left  for  them  to  do  but  to  crawl  or  creep 
or  hobble  out  of  the  way,  according  to  the  possibilities 
afforded  by  legs  more  or  less  hors  de  combat.  In  cold 
blood  not  one  of  those  singing  pilgrims  would  have  vol 
untarily  so  much  as  brushed  against  the  poor  devils,  for 
in  Brittany  eternal  damnation  is  supposed  to  become  the 
portion  of  whomsoever  offends  a  beggar,  but  the  furor  of 
the  moment,  the  haste  to  be  among  the  first  before  the 
blessed  statue,  swept  everything  before  it,  even  the 
mendicants'  enormous  swarms. 

"Is  there  something  wrong  with  you,  Pierrek?"  Faik, 
who  had  vainly  attempted  to  draw  her  husband  into  the 
line  of  pilgrims  passing  nearest  to  them,  said  at  last, 
somewhat  impatiently. 

"Wrong?  What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked,  pulling 
himself  together  for  the  second  time,  and  extremely  dis 
gusted  to  find  the  task  so  difficult  a  one. 

"You  look  so  angry!"  she  ventured.  "There's  that 
nasty  black  cross  above  your  eyes  that  I  dislike  so  much 
to  see!  Have  I  vexed  you,  Pierrek?" 

"Vexed  me!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  singular  eagerness. 
"You  could  never  do  that,  Faik-gez!  Come,  we'll  join 
the  procession;  but  first  let's  go  and  buy  the  biggest 
candles  in  the  place!"  He  turned,  and  his  eyes  lighted 
on  a  group  of  men  standing  together  a  few  yards  away. 
They  were  all  from  Enez-Pers,  also  they  were  scowling  in 
his  direction,  and  at  sight  of  them  his  own  face  turned 
livid  with  anger.  Right  in  front  of  the  band  Klaoda, 
their  leader,  was  defiantly  standing,  arms  crossed  in  fine 

1  There  is  not  in  Brittany,  there  is  not  a  single  one, 
There  is  not  a  saint  like  St.  Herve! 
188 


GRAY    MIST 

melodramatic  style,  head  thrown  back  and  eyes  glitter 
ing  evilly,  quite  unconscious,  however,  as  was  his  small 
detachment,  that  immediately  behind  them  fifteen  or 
twenty  stalwart  fishermen  from  Kermarioker  were  noise 
lessly  advancing.  The  fact  of  the  matter  was  that  Ne"- 
dele"k  Houarn,  warned  by  Faik  of  the  possibilities  of  the 
day,  had  been  stalking  Klaoda  ever  since  his  landing  an 
hour  before,  and  as  by  now  the  tail-end  of  the  proces 
sion,  followed  by  a  writhing,  disgustful,  contortionate 
phalanx  of  beggars,  was  leaving  the  ground,  the  two  op 
posing  factions  found  themselves  at  last  alone  face  to 
face  and  in  an  extraordinarily  favorable  position  for  doing 
battle! 

With  a  precision  that  would  have  done  honor  to  the 
snowy  decks  of  a  man-of-war,  the  lads  of  Kermarioker 
wheeled,  and,  to  the  extreme  surprise  and  evident  an 
noyance  of  those  from  Enez-Pers,  took  up  their  stand 
without  word  or  gesture  immediately  behind  Pierrek  and 
Faik.  Klaoda  gave  an  ugly  laugh  and  squared  his 
shoulders,  and  then  for  a  moment  which  seemed  inter 
minable  there  was  silence  absolute  and  complete.  Pierrek 
had  said  but  one  word,  made  but  one  gesture,  but  that 
sufficed  to  make  Faik  take  her  stand  obediently  on  the 
flat  top  of  a  great  square  stone  near  by.  She  was  not  in 
the  least  frightened  now,  nor  even  anxious,  although  she 
knew  perfectly  what  was  about  to  happen,  and  she 
glanced  proudly  at  her  Pierrek,  who  somehow  looked 
bigger  than  ever,  his  face  still  ashen,  and  with  a  dull, 
steel -like  gleam  in  his  gray  eyes.  The  terrible,  slow- 
kindling  anger  of  this  quiet,  unemotional  lad  was  some 
thing  impressive  to  behold;  it  was  so  essentially  Breton, 
so  different  from  the  foaming,  hysterical  passion  of  more 
southern  races. 

Nobody  could  possibly  have  mistaken  the  affair  for  a 

189 


GRAY    MIST 

chance  encounter;  the  organization  of  both  forces  was 
conspicuously  evident.  There  was  a  readiness  in  the  at 
titude  and  demeanor  of  all  concerned,  too,  that  showed 
without  any  peradventure  that  they  knew  what  they 
were  about.  Calmly,  Pierrek  and  his  men  moved  a  few 
steps  forward,  then  stopped,  Klaoda  doing  likewise,  with 
a  most  astonishing  and  deliberate  scorn  of  haste  and  ex 
citement.  There  was  a  gleam  in  all  those  eyes  which 
surprised  the  little  watcher  on  the  rock,  for  it  is  not 
often  the  luck  of  women  to  see  these  combat  lights — a 
gleam  which  made  her  suddenly  thankful  that  sailors  do 
not  carry  the  murderous  pen-baz. 

Suddenly,  with  heads  lowered  like  bulls  in  the  arena, 
they  charged  down  upon  one  another,  and  met  with  a 
volley  of  dull  thuds.  Breton  encounters  invariably  be 
gin  by  ramlike  buttings,  a  very  disabling  custom  indeed, 
and  it  is  only  after  this  first  onslaught  that  fists  come  into 
play.  Drawing  off  quickly,  again  the  Kermarioker  lads 
wheeled,  but  only  to  return  with  savage  curses  fighting 
like  demons.  Always  holding  together,  they  turned  this 
way  and  that,  bewildering  the  superior  force  from  Enez- 
Pers  with  magnificently  -  aimed  blows,  and  from  her 
throne  of  stone  Faik,  beside  herself  with  enthusiasm, 
cried  her  encouragements  to  the  one  side  and  her  con 
tempt  to  the  other — herself  the  most  curious  feature  of 
the  fray,  with  the  wings  of  her  coifEe  and  of  her  collarette 
flying  in  the  wind,  her  cheeks  on  fire,  and  her  fierce  eyes 
flashing  like  twin  stars.  Once  more  Pierrek  massed  his 
men  and  crashed  into  the  heart  of  the  enemy.  Nothing 
could  stand  before  such  a  rush  as  that,  and  the  men  from 
Enez-Pers  broke  and  streamed  away,  a  scattered  band  of 
fugitives,  pursued  hot-foot  by  their  victors  and  the  biting 
taunts  of  Faik. 

"Oh!  you  whelps,  you  chicken-hearted  whelps!"  she 

190 


GRAY    MIST 

was  screaming,  quite  unaware  of  what  she  said.  "Kill 
them,  Pierrek,  kill  them!"  and  with  one  final  piercing 
cry  she  leaped  from  the  bowlder  and  flew  after  the  battle 
like  a  little  fury. 

Was  the  thing  finished  .  .  .?  Oh!  not  quite  yet,  for 
Klaoda,  maddened  with  shame  and  rage,  suddenly  faced 
round,  after  vainly  trying  to  rally  his  forces,  and  Pierrek, 
slightly  in  advance  of  his,  clearing  the  intervening  space 
with  one  mighty  jump,  closed  with  him,  and,  lifting  him 
bodily,  threw  him  headlong  into  the  midst  of  his  re 
treating  comrades.  He  capped  this  coup  de  maUre  by 
following  him  into  the  confused  and  utterly  disorganized 
bunch,  using  both  feet  and  hands  to  such  purpose  and 
with  such  effect  that  in  a  moment  the  last  of  the  gars  of 
Enez-Pers  were  disappearing  beyond  the  heather-grown 
crest  of  the  ridge,  a  completely  demoralized  and  severely 
punished  crowd. 

As  Pierrek  came  back  limping  slightly,  Faik,  who  was 
brimming  over  with  the  joy  of  victory  and  fairly  dancing 
in  delight  by  the  roadside,  stopped  suddenly  and  gazed 
speechlessly  at  him.  His  face  startled  her,  it  was  so  grave. 

"Are  you  hurt?"  she  asked,  sharply,  stepping  anx 
iously  to  his  side. 

"Not  in  the  least.  Some  one  trod  on  my  foot;  that's 
all." 

"What  is  the  matter,  then?"  she  asked  again,  all  her 
triumph  laid  in  ashes. 

"Oh!  not  much,"  he  replied,  glancing  at  his  faithful 
adherents,  who  were  hobblingly  rejoining  him,  "except 
ing  that,  unless  I  am  much  mistaken,  we  have  but  just 
begun  our  task.  These  fellows  will  come  over  to  Ker- 
marioker  one  of  these  days  with  reinforcements,  and" — 
he  paused  for  a  moment — "the  feud  is  on  in  good  ear 
nest!"  he  concluded,  rather  lamely. 

191 


GRAY    MIST 

It  was  an  unusual  scene,  and  one  that  would  have  done 
credit  to  the  dramatic  stage.  The  vast  lande,  with  its 
dreamy  setting  of  rose-hued  heather  and  yellow  broom  a 
little  paled  by  the  approaching  winter,  the  distant  back 
ground  of  menhirs  and  dolmens,  where  the  great  multi 
colored  throng  could  just  be  seen  rising  and  kneeling  and 
rising  again  beneath  the  brilliant  sunlight  that  blurred 
the  little  candle  flames  borne  by  its  thousand  hands  to  a 
mere  powdering  of  faint-red  gold,  and  there  in  the  fore 
ground  the  battle-scarred  little  party  standing  around 
the  square  granite  block  from  the  top  of  which  Faik  had 
watched  the  combat — Pierrek  and  the  gars  in  their  dust- 
covered  fete  clothes,  Nedelek  Houarn  nursing  his  left 
cheek  where  a  well-directed  fist  had  left  an  angry  blue 
mark,  and  Faik,  with  a  new  light  in  her  eyes  and  a  new 
anxiety  in  her  heart,  eagerly  scanning  her  husband's  face! 

"There  is  no  sort  of  need  for  this  little  affair  to  make 
us  lose  all  our  fun  to-day,"  Nedelek  said,  suddenly  waving 
his  disengaged  hand  from  side  to  side,  fingers  outspread, 
as  though  scattering  his  enemies,  for  the  present,  at 
least,  to  all  four  corners  of  heaven.  "If  we  don't  hurry, 
the  Benediction  will  be  over,  and  we  won't  see  Monsieur 
le  Recteur  in  his  fine  crimson  and  gold  and  blue!" 

Pierrek,  who  had  almost  immediately  recovered  his 
equanimity,  and  was  occupied  in  brushing  the  dust  from 
his  clothes,  burst  out  laughing. 

"He  cannot  be  more  crimson  and  blue  than  you  are 
yourself,  my  poor  Nedelek!"  he  said,  looking  at  him  over 
his  shoulder.  "Who  was  it  gave  you  that  fine  souvenir?" 

"How  the  devil  do  I  know?"  Nedelek  growled.  "There 
were  enough  arms  and  legs  flying  about  in  the  air  to  fur 
nish  an  army  where  I  got  that.  Let's  go  now,  anyway. 
What's  the  good  of  throwing  out  roots  here?" 

When  after  repairing  the  disorder  of  their  holiday  ac- 

192 


GRAY    MIST 

coutrements  they  at  last  reached  the  neighborhood  of 
the  statue,  luck  was  with  them,  for  the  Cure  was  still 
standing  before  the  little  temporary  altar,  in  all  the  mag 
nificence  of  a  chasuble  that  saw  the  light  of  day  only 
once  a  year  —  for  St.  Herve's  Pardon.  In  consequence, 
although  several  hundred  years  old,  its  crimson  and 
golden  roses,  brocaded  upon  a  sumptuous  shade  of  softly- 
brilliant  mazarine  blue  woven  with  slender  threads  of 
bullion,  had  retained  nearly  all  their  pristine  beauty  of 
coloring.  The  ivory -tinted  lace  of  the  surplice  threw 
this  gorgeous  garment  into  superb  relief,  and  thus  draped 
and  framed  by  the  red-sail  canopy  and  the  blue  masses 
of  the  nets,  the  tall  figure  of  the  priest  looked  extraor 
dinarily  imposing.  Vanished  for  the  time  was  the  simple 
sailor-cure,  with  his  brusquely  tender  ways,  and  in  his 
place  a  very  grand  personage  indeed  faced  the  multi 
tude,  hands  extended  in  benediction,  head  thrown  slightly 
back,  and  upon  the  clean-cut  features  an  expression  of 
absolute  saintliness  seldom  seen  there,  for  it  was  almost 
haughty  in  its  rapt  concentration.  It  would  have  been 
difficult  to  describe  wherein  exactly  this  transformation 
lay — for  the  mise-en-scene,  beautiful  though  it  was,  had 
but  little  to  do  with  it,  and  yet  it  was  patent  that  just 
then  the  Recteur  of  Kermarioker  dwarfed  everybody  and 
everything  around  him  into  insignificance,  scarcely  ex 
cepting  the  noble  statue  towering  like  some  splendid  em 
bodiment  of  power  and  eternity  above  the  altar. 

Slow-beating  drums  punctuated  the  final  allocution, 
the  distance  at  which  they  had  been  stationed  enabling 
their  muffled  throbs  to  strike  a  perfect  note  in  the  har 
mony  of  the  general  scheme.  When  the  last  "Amen" 
had  been  uttered  there  was  a  moment  of  stupendous 
silence — such  a  hush  as  once  in  a  very,  very  long  while 
may  fall  upon  an  over-awed  multitude,  and  through 

193 


GRAY    MIST 

which  thrills  the  united  pulsation  of  countless  hearts — 
the  flutter  of  countless  souls.  Then,  as  though  at  a 
word  of  command,  the  whole  kneeling  assembly  rose  to 
its  feet,  and  from  thousands  upon  thousands  of  throats 
burst  forth  the  "  Hymn  of  St.  Herve,"  rolling  in  waves  of 
thunder  along  the  abrupt  cliff-edge  to  cascade,  down, 
down,  down  where  the  sunlight  lay  in  dazzling  pools  of 
gold  upon  the  sands,  glittered  upon  the  pale  azure  of  an 
almost  glassy  sea,  and  bathed  the  serried  ranks  of  strand 
ed  chaloupes  and  sinagots,  lying  dry-keeled,  inclined  upon 
their  broad  sides,  awaiting  the  evening  tide  to  refloat 
them  at  the  hour  of  departure. 

The  Recteur  alone  still  knelt  before  the  altar,  while  be 
hind  him  St.  Herve"'s  especial  procession  of  votaries  and 
penitents  slowly  formed.  In  front,  immediately  follow 
ing  the  banner  of  honor  borne  by  two  stalwart  fishermen — 
a  huge  oriflamme  of  royal  blue,  thickly  sewn  with  golden 
roses  and  silver  lilies  encircling  an  exquisitely-embroid 
ered  figure  of  the  Saint — came  "the  mothers."  In  their 
arms  little  ailing  children  were  carried,  and  as  they 
passed  the  statue  these  were  lifted  aloft  to  touch  the 
stone  feet,  or  at  least  the  edge  of  the  granite  lace  that 
borders  the  great  mantle  draping  the  magnificent  figure. 
Behind  those  impassioned,  imploring,  fever-eyed  women 
another  and,  if  possible,  yet  more  touching  group  slowly 
advanced — the  sailors  rescued  by  the  mercy  of  St.  Herve 
from  death  by  drowning! 

With  the  long,  loose,  balancing  stride  of  those  who 
spend  their  lives  upon  tossing  decks  they  approached, 
wearing  the  very  clothes  in  which  they  had  battled  with 
the  waves,  and  dripping,  as  then,  with  salt-water,  for  a 
few  moments  before  they  had  plunged  themselves  anew 
in  order  to  appear  before  the  Compassionate  Saint  "just 
as  when  he  took  them  by  the  hand  and  drew  them  from 


GRAY    MIST 

the  deep!"  Their  torn  jerseys  hanging  open,  their  coarse 
canvas  trousers  rolled  up  from  their  bare  feet,  their  grim 
faces  set  like  flint  by  the  effort  to  live  again  in  all  its 
horror  the  moment  that  preceded  "their  Hoarve's"  su 
preme  interference  in  their  behalf,  they  passed;  head 
erect  "at  attention,"  tragic  beyond  compare,  for  they 
knew  that  it  was  not  for  the  last  time  that  the  clutching 
sea  would  hold  them  in  her  cold  embrace.  "She  never 
forgives  our  once  escaping  her!"  they  themselves  say, 
"and  then — !" 

Behind  them,  and  in  cruel  contrast,  trailed  on  wearied, 
discouraged  feet  a  double  file  of  recently-made  widows, 
their  bowed  heads  hidden  beneath  the  drooping  hoods  of 
their  long  mourning  cloaks.  What  did  these  come  to  de 
mand  of  Kermarioker's  august  Patron — what  supplica 
tion  did  there  remain  for  them  to  utter?  Alas,  their 
presence  there  could  only  be  akin  to  some  supreme  pro 
testation,  some  mute  reproach  to  the  great  Saint  who  had 
not  in  time  looked  their  way,  for  life  was  indeed  finished 
for  them,  as  was  testified  by  the  extinguished  tapers  they 
carried  reversed,  since  in  Finisterre  second  marriages  are 
a  rarity,  looked  upon  especially  in  the  case  of  these 
"widows  of  the  sea"  as  a  positive  sacrilege! 

Others  followed,  and  others  still — men  and  women  clad 
with  a  richness  of  costume  that  seemed  to  belie  the  pro 
verbial  poverty  of  Brittany,  or  wretched  creatures  in  rags 
and  patches,  outcasts  and  fugitives,  cripples,  blind,  halt 
ing,  malformed,  and  misbegotten,  but  all  lifted  momen 
tarily  out  of  their  cruel  misery  by  hope,  transfigured  by 
faith — and,  yes,  rid  for  an  instant  of  their  repulsiveness, 
so  great  was  the  victory  of  mind  over  poor,  tortured  mat 
ter.  One  by  one  they  bowed  before  the  statue — not  in 
adoration,  as  the  misinformed  persist  in  believing — but 
in  reverence,  gratitude,  or  supplication  for  heavenly 

J95 


GRAY    MIST 

mediation,  and  a  strange  phalanx  they  looked,  kneeling 
and  rising  on  the  now  utterly  flattened  and  blackened 
carpet  of  heather,  a  woman  scintillating  in  gold  and 
silver  embroideries  toeing  the  line  beside  a  bundle  of  tat 
ters,  a  wealthy  mareyeur  1  rubbing  elbows  with  an  aged 
baleer-bro  2  drawing  himself  along  on  two  sticks — all  the 
types  of  almost  every  class  in  the  broad  land  of  Armor, 
and  to  the  very  last  one  seeking  the  protection  of  Sant 
Hoarv£." 

Pierrek  and  Faik,  too,  had  made  their  obeisance  to  the 
Saint,  deeply,  profoundly,  with  all  their  hearts  in  their 
eyes,  and  now,  little  fingers  linked  as  usual,  they  were 
returning  towards  the  camp  du  Pardon.  On  their  way 
thither  they  had  yet  one  station  to  make,  the  miraculous 
fountain  that,  hollowed  from  a  gigantic  granite  block, 
looks  like  a  stone-framed  silver  mirror.  Around  it  are 
stepping-stones  and  an  encircling  foot-path,  trodden  deep 
by  the  feet  of  generations.  Reverently  the  young  couple 
drank  a  wooden  bowlful  apiece  of  the  clear  cool  water, 
handed  to  them  by  the  attending  crones,  who  received 
with  low  courtesy s,  as  old-fashioned  and  obsolete  as 
themselves,  the  piece-blanche  of  fifty  centimes  that  Pier 
rek  handed  each  of  them  in  lieu  of  the  tiny  copper  coin 
that  constitutes  the  usual  offering. 

That  evening  as  the  sun  was  setting  in  a  sky  of  pale 
apple  green  slashed  with  gold,  they  went  the  round  of 
the  camp.  They  were  a  little  tired,  and  surfeited  with 
emotions,  sensations,  and  pleasures,  but  still  they  wanted 
before  leaving  to  see  all  there  was  yet  to  see;  and  it  was 
a  scene  even  gayer  than  it  had  been  by  broad  daylight 
that  met  their  enraptured  eyes,  a  scene  very  different 
also  from  the  splendid  pathos  of  the  morning's  religious 

1  Buyer  of  fish.  Middle  -  man  between  the  fishers  and  the 
marketmen.  2  Seeker  of  bread. 

196 


GRAY    MIST 

ceremonies.  Tents  of  various  shapes  and  hues  displayed 
rows  of  already-lighted  paper  lanterns;  there  were  merry- 
go-rounds,  with  accompaniment  of  barrel-organs  mad 
deningly  braying  and  wheezing  monotonous  popular  airs, 
which  almost  succeeded  in  drowning  the  shrilling  lament 
of  the  bignious  where  the  dancing  of  decorous  rondes  was 
going  on,  and  here  and  there  guerz1 -singers,  all  festooned 
with  their  coarsely-printed  stock  in  trade,  held  attentive 
audiences  with  their  interminably  -  chanted  histories  of 
Breton  Saints  and  heroes.  Farther  on  a  great  square 
was  roped  in  for  the  wrestling-matches,  and  in  the  ad 
joining  enclosure  remarkable  feats  of  strength  were  being 
performed  with  enormous  mallets  and  weighty  beams  of 
oak. 

Laughing  and  chatting  they  wandered  about,  taking 
in  the  coup  d'ceil,  revisiting  this  and  that  amusement 
of  the  morning,  or  making  new  discoveries,  when  at 
length  they  came  upon  a  curious  bower  made  of  fagots, 
sheltering  a  fortune-teller  of  the  good  old  witch  type, 
a  real,  bona-fide,  simon-pure  hag,  apparently  of  incal 
culable  age — toothless,  and  half  bald,  like  an  iniquitous 
vulture,  her  black  coiffe  all  awry,  her  talon-shaped  claws 
stroking  the  huge,  blinking  gray  owl  that  perched  upon 
her  pointed  knee — -a  veritable  Gagaoula  of  the  North! 

"Tell  you  your  fortunes,  my  sweet  doves!"  she  croaked 
as  they  approached. 

"No!  No!"  Pierrek  remonstrated,  holding  back  his 
eager  little  bride.  "It  is  wicked  to  tempt  Providence. 
I  won't  have  it!"  But,  wilful  as  ever,  Faik  slipped  from 
him  and  held  out  her  rosy  fingers  with  a  mischievous  toss 
of  the  head. 

"She  can't  tell  the  future;  it's  all  a  joke!"  she  laughed, 

1  Ballad-singers. 
197 


GRAY    MIST 

gleefully,  making  a  funny  grimace  at  her  dismayed 
lover. 

By  the  gleam  of  her  smoky  torch  the  old  horror  was 
bending  now  over  the  small,  warm  palm,  cabalistic  words 
falling  from  her  sinister  mouth  ...  a  regular  hocus-pocus 
repeated  a  hundred  times  since  morning — but  all  at  once 
the  crooked  back  straightened  with  a  jerk,  and  she  flung 
the  hand  roughly  aside. 

"Get  out  of  here!"  she  cried,  in  a  shrill,  frightened 
voice,  blinking  her  little  red  eyes  excitedly — "get  out  of 
here!  I  won't  have  anything  to  do  with  such  as  you!" 

With  a  gasp  of  dismay  Faik  fell  back,  chalk  white  and 
trembling. 

"You  hag,  you  serc'h,1  riblerez,2  loudouren !" 3  growled 
Pierrek,  striding  forward  and  clutching  hold  of  the  fort 
une-teller,  while  the  owl,  with  hoarse  shrieks,  fluttered 
clumsily  into  the  darkness  of  the  hut.  "Talk  like  that 
to  my  wife — you  cursed  skulking  bird  of  evil!  I'll  teach 
you!  I'll  twist  that  scraggy  neck  of  yours!"  He  was 
shaking  her  as  a  terrier  shakes  a  rat,  and  scattering 
things  off  her  in  a  bewildering  whirl — dried  knuckle-bones 
that  described  circles  in  the  air,  odd  bits  of  glass,  ribbon- 
like  snake-skins. 

"Drop  her,  Pierrek!"  Faik  implored,  with  tears  of 
fright  raining  down  her  white  face;  "she's  crazy!  She's 
sure  to  cast  a  spell  on  us !  Drop  her ;  oh !  do ,  do ,  please  do ! " 

Pierrek,  at  the  sound  of  that  distressed  voice,  literally 
threw  the  witch  on  the  ground  at  Faik's  feet.  "Here, 
beg  her  pardon,"  he  said,  hoarse  with  rage,  "or  I'll 
crush  you  with  my  foot  like  the  evil  beast  you  are!" 
But  Faik  had  had  enough,  and  putting  her  hands  to  her 
head  she  fled,  crying  between  her  dry,  nervous  sobs : 

1  She-monkey.  2  Evil-lived  one.  3  Filthy  woman. 

198 


GRAY    MIST 

"Come,  Pierrek,  come;  I'm  afraid,  I'm  afraid!" 

The  old  hag  rose  slowly  to  her  feet  as  he  obeyed  the 
call,  and  looked  confusedly  about  as  if  dazed  by  that  ter 
rible  shaking. 

Twice  she  turned  completely  around  like  a  pivot,  and 
then,  bursting  into  a  succession  of  cracked  peals  of 
laughter,  she  extended  one  arm  in  the  direction  where 
the  young  couple  had  vanished. 

"Ar  re  zaonet!"1  she  shrieked,  in  a  voice  of  incredible 
hatred  and  disgust. 

1  "  The  accursed,"  or  "  those  who  will  be  damned.". 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"Reach  the  man  through  the  woman/!  proverbs  say, 

But  if  the  woman  is  to  be  beguiled, 
And  she  a  mother,  then  the  shortest  way 

To  mind  or  heart  is  always  through  her  child. 

M.  M. 

FAIK,  sitting  on  an  overturned  kin&u,  was  industri 
ously  knitting  while  watching  her  first-born  play  in  the 
sand  at  her  feet.  In  the  hollow  of  her  lap  was  cradled 
the  new  arrival,  now  three  months  old,  who  already  gave 
promise  to  become  as  perfect  a  specimen  of  handsome 
babyhood  as  his  little  brother. 

The  little  bride  of  four  years  ago  had  scarcely  changed; 
the  pure  oval  of  the  face  had  perchance  lengthened  a 
little,  the  wilful  mouth  softened  a  trifle,  and  the  emerald 
eyes  acquired  greater  depth  of  expression;  but  the  ex 
quisite  complexion  was  unaltered,  the  little  mutinous 
curls  above  the  brow  every  bit  as  unruly,  and  the  slender 
figure  just  as  supple  and  graceful  as  ever. 

The  tide  was  ebbing  fast,  the  April  air  as  mellow  as 
June  in  other  climes,  and  the  morning  sun  shone  gayly 
upon  the  million  mica  paillettes  of  the  gray  Kermario 
cliffs  and  the  greenish  -  blue  depths  that  lapped  their 
bases  with  scarce  a  ripple.  Beyond  the  bar  of  low  rocks 
that  for  half  a  mile  or  so  projects  from  the  foot  of  the 
northern  peak,  a  white  sail  could  be  distinguished  driv 
ing  along  at  a  great  rate  of  speed,  and  before  Faik  could 
well  have  had  time  to  recognize  the  boat — the  steersman 


GRAY    MIST 

was  invisible  by  reason  of  the  intervening  sail — the  little 
craft  came  rushing  onto  the  sands,  and  with  shivering 
canvas  stood  motionless.  Kicking  off  his  tall  rubber 
boots,  the  Recteur  of  Kermarioker  swung  himself  over 
the  side,  and  with  a  sound  of  splashy  footsteps  walked 
rapidly  up  the  beach,  his  soutane  hanging  limply  about 
his  tall  form,  one  sleeve  completely  drenched,  and  on  his 
head  a  serviceable  sou'wester,  instead  of  the  ordinary 
broad-leaved  clerical  covering. 

Little  Arzel 1  looked  up  from  his  sand-castles  with  a 
wondrous  pair  of  eyes,  emerald-hued  like  his  mother's, 
and  was  instantly  snatched  up  and  perched  upon  the 
priest's  broad  shoulder,  his  dimpled  fingers  clutching  for 
support  at  the  Roman  collar  and  silken  rabat,  in  spite  of 
Faik's  remonstrances. 

"Let  him  do  as  he  pleases,"  the  Cure  said,  with  a  de 
lighted  smile;  "my  godson  can  do  no  wrong,"  and  then 
added,  in  a  graver  way,  as  he  sat  down  beside  her  and 
settled  the  little  boy  on  his  knee,  "I  am  glad  to  find  you, 
for  I  stopped  here  on  my  way  home  expressly  to  talk 
with  you." 

"That  is  very  kind  of  you,  Monsieur  le  Recteur!"  Faik 
exclaimed,  brightly,  settling  herself  with  one  foot  under 
her  for  greater  comfort,  but  without  interrupting  the 
click  of  her  needles.  She  looked  exceedingly,  almost  pre 
posterously,  young  like  that,  in  spite  of  her  two  babies 
and  her  assiduous  attention  to  the  work  in  hand. 

"It  is,"  M.  Kornog  said,  abruptly,  "really  difficult  to 
realize  that  you  are  the  mother  of  those  two  bouncing 
youngsters." 

"I  know,"  she  replied,  merrily.  "Pierrek  always  tells 
me  that  I  should  be  ashamed  of  myself  to  be  still  so 

1  Pronounced  Ar-z£ll. 
201 


GRAY    MIST 

childish,  but  that's  stupid  of  him,  because  what  is  he 
himself,  pray,  at  nearly  twenty-four,  but  a  mere  boy?  I 
dare  say  we  do  make  a  rather  ridiculous  couple!" 

The  breeze  was  blowing  the  little  rings  of  copper-hued 
hair  back  against  her  coiffe,  and  she  stopped  knitting  for 
the  fraction  of  a  second  in  order  to  smooth  them  down. 

"Oh!  that's  not  going  to  make  you  look  the  least 
more  matronly!"  M.  Kornog  remarked,  dryly,  looking  at 
her  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye.  "You  are  still,  and  I 
fear,  alas,  will  remain,  the  little  dare-devil  who  urged  on 
our  gars  against  those  from  Enez-Pers  four  years  ago; 
who—" 

"I  didn't  urge  them  on,  Monsieur  le  Recteur!"  she 
interrupted,  flinging  one  knee  independently  over  the 
other,  and  endangering  thereby  the  equilibrium  of  the 
sleeping  child  on  her  lap. 

"There  now!  What  did  I  tell  you?  Sapristi,  it  is 
not  a  wooden  doll  you  are  jouncing  about  like  that! 
Take  care!"  the  Recteur  remonstrated,  with  some  im 
patience. 

Faik  looked  curiously  at  him  from  beneath  her  black 
lashes. 

"What  ails  you,  Monsieur  le  Recteur?"  she  asked,  quite 
seriously.  "Has  something  gone  amiss  that  you  should 
be  so  cross?" 

M.  Kornog  lifted  his  shoulders  with  an  inexpressi 
ble  gesture  of  tolerance.  Faik  had  been  his  particu 
lar  enfant  gatee  ever  since  her  arrival  at  Kermarioker, 
and  her  boutades  always  amused  him,  but  to  conceal  his 
feelings,  whatever  they  were  at  the  moment,  was  not  one 
of  his  accomplishments,  and  he  continued,  rather  gruffly: 

"I  think,  Faik,  that  the  time  has  come  for  us  to  stop 
this  endless  war  kindled  by  your  marriage.  It  is  dirty 
work,  unworthy  of  true  Bretons,  who  should  fight  for 


GRAY    MIST 

their  country  alone.  We  hold  human  life  cheaper  here 
than  does  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  but  that  does  not  en 
title  us  to  waste  it  wantonly!" 

Faik  displayed  no  surprise,  no  resentment  at  the  force- 
fulness  of  the  speech.  In  the  main  she  agreed  with  her 
old  friend,  but  still  there  was  a  certain  pride  in  the  man 
ner  of  her  listening;  it  is  not  everybody  who  can  boast  of 
being  the  cause  of  such  a  feud,  and  she  would  not  have 
been  a  woman  and  a  beauty  had  she  failed  to  be  con 
scious  of  this. 

M.  Kornog  glanced  at  her  and  then  turned  away, 
in  his  quick,  jerky  fashion.  His  face  had  suddenly 
hardened,  and  without  quite  knowing  why  he  put  little 
Arzel  down  again  among  his  sand-castles,  where  he  was 
soon  laughing  and  crowing  with  delight  at  the  antics 
of  a  dozen  sand-spiders  jumping  backward  and  forward 
over  fortifications  that  crumbled  at  a  mere  touch  of  their 
many  lace  like  legs. 

"You  must  stop  it,  Faik!"  the  Recteur  said,  sternly. 
"You  alone  can  do  this  by  speaking  to  Klaoda,  the  ring 
leader  and  instigator  of  all  these  outrages.  It  is  a  thing 
to  be  done  by  you  and  at  once!" 

Clutching  her  baby  with  one  arm,  and  letting  her  knit 
ting  roll  to  the  ground,  she  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"I  implore  the  mercy  of  Klaoda!  Never,  Monsieur  le 
Recteur — never!  Don't  count  on  that,  because  not  even 
for  you — no,  not  for  Pierrek  and  the  little  ones — will  I 
humble  myself  so!" 

She  waved  her  disengaged  arm  fiercely  towards  the 
slender  line  of  deeper  blue  just  visible  above  the  blue  of 
the  sea,  towards  "Enez-Pers  the  Wicked,"  as  Ker- 
marioker  had  now  learned  to  call  it.  "Oh!  let  them 
come  again  and  again,  let  them  attack  our  boats  at  sea, 
and  ambush  us  from  behind  the  rocks  of  our  own  beach, 
14  203 


GRAY    MIST 

we'll  know  how  to  meet  them  in  fair  or  foul  right,  as  we 
have  so  often  done,  and  beat  them,  too  .  .  .  but  cry  for 
quarter  .  .  .no,  Monsieur  le  Recteur,  a  thousand  times  no!" 

The  priest,  too,  had  risen,  his  tall  black  form  towering 
grimly  above  the  angry  girl. 

"Name  of  a  dog!"  he  cried,  angrily.  "Is  there  no 
sobering  you,  Faik  Rouzik,  nothing  that  will  show  you 
where  this  obstinacy  of  yours  is  leading  your  adopted 
village?  I  saw  the  Vicaire  of  Kastel-ar-Veur  this  morn 
ing  at  the  semaphore,  where  he  had  landed  but  a  moment 
before,  and  he  told  me  that  your  uncle  Karadek  and 
your  old  friend  the  Recteur  are  heartbroken  over  this  con 
tinued  battling.  They  have  both  vainly  tried  to  put  it 
down,  but  your  uncle  is  helpless  against  Klaoda's  ever- 
rising  popularity,  for  they  cannot  forgive  him  what  they 
call  his  connivance  in  your  marriage,  and  as  to  the  poor 
Recteur,  he  is  nearly  ninety  now,  and  unequal  to  the  task! 
Are  you,  then,  going  to  stand  coldly  by  and  let  things 
go  on?" 

"I  am  your  humble  servant,  Monsieur  le  Recteur," 
Faik  said,  slowly,  with  that  species  of  humility  that  is 
but  an  aggravated  form  of  pride,  and  very  untruthfully 
as  well,  for  she  was  nobody's  servant  at  all,  especially 
under  compulsion.  "I  am  your  humble  servant — in  all 
else;  but  what  you  ask  I  cannot  do!" 

The  Cure*  bit  his  underlip  to  restrain  a  too  violent  re 
tort.  He  had  suddenly  remembered  that  force  and 
authority  were  foolish  weapons  to  use  with  such  a  nature 
— coaxing  might  be  more  successful,  but,  alas,  coaxing 
was  not  in  his  line  at  all.  "Ah!  these  women  of  Brit 
tany!"  he  thought,  bitterly,  "they  are  more  obstinate  and 
troublesome  to  lead  than  the  men!"  But  aloud  he  re 
sumed  in  an  altogether  different  tone,  though  it  greatly 
exasperated  him  to  descend  to  such  methods  : 

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GRAY    MIST 

"Faik  ...  do  you  never  think  of  your  children?  Are 
they  to  grow  up  with  this  enmity  for  an  inheritance? 
One  of  these  days  Pierrek  may  be  killed — indeed,  it's  a 
wonder  that  this  should  not  have  happened  long  ago,  for 
it's  he  they  want  to  bag  .  .  .  and  had  he  not  borne  a 
charmed  life  .  .  .  !"  He  glanced  at  the  swiftly-paling  face 
before  him,  and  continued  with  renewed  hope  and  energy. 
"Something  else  the  Vicaire  told  me,  and  that  is  that 
Koader  Le-Hurec  is  coming  to  visit  your  uncle  next 
week.  I  know  you  don't  like  her,  but  still  why  not  see 
her?  .  .  .  here  at  Kermarioker,  of  course,"  he  exclaimed, 
hurriedly,  alarmed  by  a  gesture  of  Faik,  "here  in  your 
own  place,  and  see  whether  she  cannot  influence  Klaoda 
— it  is  the  only  alternative,  and  it  just  now  occurred  to 
me  when  I  saw  how  abhorrent  it  would  be  to  you  to 
speak  to  him  yourself!  Please,  my  good  little  Faik,  do 
this,  for  your  poor  mother-in-law,  who  is  eating  her 
heart  out  with  anxiety;  for  your  Pierrek,  whose  life  is 
not  worth  a  sou's  purchase;  for  your  innocent  little  chil 
dren,  and  lastly  for  me,  your  old  friend!" 

His  good  little  Faik  was  facing  him  with  a  high  head 
and  an  aching  heart — the  two  often  go  together  chez  nous 
la-bas  ! 

"Koader  will  certainly  be  the  very  person  to  pacify 
Enez-Pers!"  she  said,  with  a  little  sneer  that  made  the 
Recteur  gasp.  "She  who  has  the  evil  eye!" 

"What!"  the  amazed  priest  almost  shouted,  "the  evil 
eye!  .  .  .  Are  you  mad,  Faik,  to  talk  such  nonsense?  .  .  . 
the  evil  eye  indeed!  Why,  her  husband  has  had  in 
credible  luck,  as  you  very  well  know,  and  that  from 
the  day  he  married  her  —  at  least,  so  I  have  been 
told!" 

"That  is  as  it  may  be!"  Faik  replied,  utterly  unshaken. 
"She  has  the  dirigible  evil  eye;  that's  all  it  proves!" 

205 


GRAY    MIST 

"The  dirigible  evil  eye!  And  what  in  St.  Gildas's 
name  is  that,  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  inquire?" 

"The  power  of  bringing  ill  luck  to  those  one  hates!" 
she  curtly  informed  him. 

"Oh,  indeed!  I'm  glad  to  know  it;  one's  never  too  old 
to  learn,  and  I'm  not  above  seeking  enlightenment!" 

Faik  winced.  "There  I  go!"  poor  M.  Kornog  swiftly 
reflected,  "always  too  hasty  in  my  sayings.  I'll  have  to 
begin  all  over  again!" 

"Personally,"  he  remarked,  as  quietly  as  he  could,  "I 
do  not  fear  those  islanders  of  yours,  as  you  know.  I  am, 
alas!  far  from  being  the  meek  and  lowly  person  a  priest 
should  be.  I  am  a  fighter,  of  a  fighting  stock,  and  have 
often  yearned  to  pitch  into  them  myself! — What  am  I 
saying?"  he  chided  inwardly,  but  the  sudden  glow  on  the 
pretty  face  at  his  side  urged  him  to  persevere  with  what 
was  after  all  but  the  exact  truth.  "But  in  such  a  fight 
it  is  the  women  and  children  who  suffer  .  .  .  the  old 
mothers  and  the  tiny  children."  He  glanced  meaningly 
at  the  curly  pate  of  little  Arzel  bending  over  a  line  of 
pebble  forts  that  he  had  just  terminated  to  his  entire 
satisfaction. 

"The  tiny  little  children!"  he  repeated,  with  con 
vincing  emphasis. 

Something  vibrated  in  Faik's  heart  responding  to  this 
last  touch — a  clever  one,  decidedly — for  the  girl  was  a 
tender  mother,  despite  her  youth  and  her  headlong,  im 
pulsive  ways.  With  such  as  she  Brittany  is  abundantly 
provided,  thank  the  Saints! 

"I  will  not  promise  anything,"  she  said,  still  a  little 
defiantly,  "but  Monsieur  le  Recteur,  I  will  think  over 
what  you  have  said  and  let  you  know  .  .  .  what  .  .  .  what 
I  can  bring  myself  to  do." 

This  was  an  immense  concession,  and  the  shrewd  Rec- 

206 


GRAY    MIST 

teur  had  the  wisdom  to  let  the  matter  drop  without  fur 
ther  comment,  budding  resolves  being  best  left  to  un 
close  in  their  own  good  time.  Indeed,  he  did  not  seem 
to  be  listening  very  intently.  He  was  watching  Arzel, 
his  head  slightly  inclined  on  one  side,  his  eyes  lost  in 
pleasant  contemplation. 

"I  had  forgotten,"  he  said,  after  an  almost  imper 
ceptible  pause,  "that  I  have  a  surprise  at  home  for  my 
godson!" 

At  the  word  "surprise"  the  boy  rose  and  stood  before 
the  priest,  shoulders  squared,  head  erect,  eyes  unblinking 
— an  absurd  reproduction  of  his  father  in  miniature. 

"What  is  it,  venerable  godfather?"  he  lisped,  with  ex 
traordinary  gravity.  "What  is  the  surprise?" 

This  was  a  strangely  delicious  little  being,  with  hair  of 
yellow  silk  like  that  one  sees  on  the  heads  of  very  ex 
pensive  wax-dolls,  falling  straight  across  the  brow,  and 
waving  about  the  shoulders,  light  as  thistle-down.  The 
complexion  was  that  of  a  tea-rose  slightly  underlaid  with 
pink,  the  nose  ever  so  delicately  aquiline,  and  the  chin 
obstinately  formed,  with  a  most  kissable  dimple  punctu 
ating  its  resolute  roundness,  but  the  greatest  seduction 
of  that  baby  countenance  lay  in  the  deep-set,  wide-open 
eyes,  very  large,  and  veiled  by  ridiculously  long  lashes — 
eyes  that  looked  with  almost  ludicrous  intentness  upon 
all  the  things  of  this  world.  In  his  eagerness  he  laid  two 
chubby  hands  violently  on  the  skirt  of  the  long,  black 
soutane,  and  looked  up  questioningly  in  the  Curb's  now 
brilliantly  smiling  face. 

"Well,  Little  Curiosity,"  he  answered,  tenderly  patting 
the  yellow  head,  "it  is  a  pair  of  magpies  who  talk  better 
than  you  do,  even;  great,  big,  full-grown  magpies,  very 
arrogant  and  proud  of  their  fine  black-and-white  coats!" 

"For  Arzel?"  the  little  fellow  asked,  in  delighted  won- 

207 


GRAY    MIST 

der.  "What's  their  name?  .  .  .  tell  me,  venerable  god 
father — quick!" 

"Not  very  pretty  names,  Arzel-gez.  Perhaps  you'll 
want  to  baptize  them  over  again!" 

"No — oh  no!" 

"Yes — oh  yes!  doubtless!  for  they're  not  in  the  very 
least  nice.  The  gentleman  magpie  is  called  Gouillas,1 
and  the  lady  magpie  Souillotte.1  Now  what  do  you  say 
to  that,  my  three-year-old  philosopher?" 

A  gurgling  laugh  was  the  answer.  Gouillas  and 
Souillotte,  that  was  very  funny  indeed.  Nobody  in  the 
world  but  a  venerable  godfather  like  Arzel's  could  have 
invented  such  funny  names,  and  promised  so  joyful  a 
surprise ! 

' '  Come  with  your  Mammik  this  afternoon  to  the  pres 
bytery,  and  Mari-Gwezek  will  give  them  to  you.  They 
have  a  nice,  large,  willow  cage  to  live  in,  but  they're  never 
inside;  they  prefer,  you  see,  to  be  independent,  and  to 
strut  up  and  down  on  the  grass,  wagging  their  tails  and 
looking  impertinently  at  everybody.  You  can  feed  them 
with  a  spoon,  Arzel,  cabbage  soup  and  buckwheat  mush 
— just  what  you  eat  yourself.  But  now  I  must  go  home 
quick,  or  I'll  be  scolded.  This  good  Mari-Gwezek,  un 
like  some,  does  not  improve  with  age,  and  if  she  does  not 
get  the  lobsters  from  the  semaphore  in  time  to  boil  them 
for  mid-day  dinner,  she'll  shriek  louder  than  the  mag 
pies.  Just  think,  Arzel,  I  took  four  blue  langoustes  from 
one  easier  and  five  green  lobsters  from  another.  Trot 
over  to  the  boat  with  me,  and  I'll  give  you  one  of  each 
sort  for  papa's  dinner." 

Comical  were  the  efforts  of  the  embryo  fisherman  to 
reduce  the  two  huge  armored  scramblers  to  anything  like 

1  In  rough  English  rendering,  "Messy"!  and  "Dirty." 
208 


GRAY    MIST 

portability.  The  lobster's  claws  had  been  strongly  tied 
with  string  to  his  gleaming  body,  and  since  langoustes  are 
by  nature  devoid  of  these  commodious  adjuncts,  the  feat 
would  have  been  merely  one  of  strength  for  two  very 
young  and  inexperienced  arms,  but  alack!  these  "cardi 
nals  of  the  sea,"  as  a  very  great  French  writer  who 
must  have  been  a  very  ignorant  fisherman  once  mis 
called  them,  flapped  enormous  tails  in  such  near  prox 
imity  to  Arzel's  aristocratic  little  nose,  that  in  three 
bounds  Faik  cleared  the  distance,  and  capturing  child 
and  crustaceans  by  main  force,  without  for  all  that  re 
linquishing  her  firm  hold  on  baby  Tamek,  ran  laughing 
up  the  beach,  turning  once  or  twice  to  wave  an  affection 
ate  good-bye  to  the  departing  Recteur. 

It  was  only  when  her  children  were  sunk  in  their  sweet 
afternoon  slumber  that  the  young  mother  could  find 
time  to  sit  down  quietly  and  think  over  the  morning's 
conversation.  The  sun,  really  rather  over- vigorous  for 
April,  did  not  intrude  itself  too  importunately  into  her 
little  garden  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and  there  the  air 
was  quite  exquisitely  cool  and  caressing.  From  her  seat 
on  the  inner  door-step  Faik  could  hear  the  first  turn  of 
her  two  darlings  in  their  cradles,  and  meanwhile,  when 
glancing  up  from  her  eternal  knitting,  enjoy  the  sight  of 
the  great  border  of  white  violets  surrounding  a  promising 
square  of  newly  planted  salads,  and  satisfy  herself  that 
the  radishes  would  not  be  unwholesomely  overshadowed 
later  on  by  the  tall  spikes  of  the  hollyhocks  with  which 
she  had  insisted  upon  flanking  them.  The  two  latest  in 
mates  of  the  garden,  Gouillas  and  Souillotte,  stood  off 
suspiciously  from  her  clicking  needles,  midway  between 
the  invitingly  open  gate  of  their  rustic  cage  and  the  tips 
of  her  light  sabots.  Their  insolent  black  eyes  were 
questioningly  fixed  upon  her  every  now  and  again,  their 

209 


GRAY    MIST 

sleek  heads  cocked  on  one  side,  visibly  taking  stock  of 
this  new  mistress,  so  much  more  pleasant  to  gaze  upon 
than  cross  old  Mari-Gwezek.  Arzel  had  cried  very  bit 
terly  because  neither  of  these  piebald  birds  had  con 
sented  to  accompany  him  to  his  couch,  but  all  was  sooth 
ingly  still  now,  and  Faik  sank  into  a  profound  reverie — 
a  most  unusual  thing  with  her. 

Should  she  follow  the  Recteur's  advice,  and  putting  her 
pride  in  her  pocket  consent  at  least  to  receive  the  re 
doubtable  Koader?  The  casualties  in  the  ranks  of  the 
Kermarioker,  as  well  as  in  those  of  the  Enez-Pers  fac 
tion,  had  been  numerous  lately.  Not  one  year  had 
passed  since  her  marriage  without  some  bloody  battle 
being  fought  to  a  finish,  and  this  was  without  prejudice 
to  the  many  skirmishes  that  had  been  productive  of 
much  damage,  more  or  less  serious  in  immediate  and  re 
mote  effect. 

"What  shall  I  do?  What  shall  I  do?"  she  said,  half 
aloud  in  her  perplexity. 

"Say  your  prayers,  say  your  prayers,  say  your  prayers," 
a  preternaturally  solemn  voice  pronounced  distinctly  at 
the  edge  of  her  skirt,  and  straightening  herself  with  a 
start  of  fear,  she  saw  Gouillas  perched  on  one  leg,  wag 
ging  his  head  up  and  down  to  emphasize  this  timely 
piece  of  advice,  as  though  really  understanding  its  im 
port! 

For  a  moment  Faik  stared  vacantly  at  this  impudent 
counsellor;  the  stare  was  moreover  mutual,  and  so  know 
ing  and  piercing  were  the  beady  black  eyes  fixed  upon 
her  own  that  she  mechanically  crossed  herself.  Gouillas 
brought  his  head  to  a  yet  more  convenient  angle,  and 
clearing  his  throat,  remarked,  impressively:  "Dominus 
vobiscum  /"  Surely  the  heart  beating  beneath  those  shin 
ing  black-and-white  feathers,  and  the  brain  under  the 


GRAY    MIST 

jaunty  cap-like  plumes,  must  be  human  after  all!  Who 
could  say  what  echoes  of  a  bygone  life,  what  shadows  of 
a  former  existence  flitted  through  that  fallow  mind?  Or 
was  this  mocker  merely  imitating  his  latest  instructress, 
the  prayerful,  if  at  times  profane,  Mari-Gwezek?  Lower 
and  lower  Faik's  head  was  bent  above  the  motionless 
magpie,  and  suddenly  she  laughed  a  short  little  laugh 
that  would  have  been  harsh  had  not  her  voice  been  so 
very  sweet. 


CHAPTER  XV 

There  ne'er  was  mail  so  densely  wove  no  thrust  would  carry 

through, 

There  never  was  a  weir  but  what  some  flood  could  twist  in  two, 
There  never  was  a  foot  inapt  to  wend  in  Folly's  ways, 
And  if  yours  has  not  travelled  far,  give  God  the  greater  praise! 

M.  M. 

FAIK  was  not  a  sentimental  nor  a  particularly  emo 
tional  girl;  her  merry  heart  was  always  bubbling  over 
with  infectious  joyousness,  excepting  when  smitten  by 
sudden  gusts  of  anger,  and  she  was  certainly  not  given 
to  brooding,  but  when  she  thought  of  Koader1  Le  Hurec 
as  a  visitor  to  her  happy  little  home,  an  unaccustomed 
hopelessness — a  sort  of  unacknowledged  dread — made 
her  feel  cold  all  over.  "I  must  get  used  to  the  idea," 
this  determined  little  spirit  argued  with  herself.  "I've 
promised  Monsieur  le  Recteur  to  let  her  come  for  a  week, 
and  so  there's  an  end  of  it;  besides,  she  may  have  changed 
for  the  better  during  the  seven  years  I  did  not  see  her 
.  .  .  and  she  can't  eat  us  up,  anyhow!" 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Koader  Le  Hurec,  though  not  an 
ogress,  was  none  the  less  a  very  unpleasant  guest  to  have 
to  look  forward  to,  and  far  from  having  been  improved 
by  time,  she  had  even  soured  somewhat  instead  of  mel 
lowing.  She  was  only  thirty-three,  it  is  true,  but  that  to 
a  girl  of  Faik's  temperament  seemed  staidest  middle  age, 
which  did  not  improve  the  prospect  of  their  becoming  at 

1  Pronounced  K6-a-dare. 
312 


GRAY    MIST 

all  intimate,  since  she  would  have  to  be  treated  with  all 
the  respect  due  to  such  a  superiority  of  years.  One  is 
strict  about  such  details  in  Finisterre! 

Koader  was  a  Karadek  by  birth,  and  seemed  to  con 
sider  that  in  so  being  she  had  placed  the  length  and 
breadth  of  Enez-Pers,  not  to  say  all  Brittany,  under  an 
obligation.  She  acted  at  any  rate,  exactly  as  though 
everybody  were  bound  in  return  for  the  honor  she  con 
ferred  upon  them  by  her  presence,  to  treat  her  with  an 
uncommon  deference,  not  untinged  with  considerable  ad 
miration.  Her  comfortable  little  home  at  Avranches,  in 
Normandy,  she  fondly  imagined  to  be  the  very  acme  of 
luxury  and  bon-ton,  and  her  husband  the  most  promising 
non-commissioned  officer  of  the  whole  corps  of  douaniers 
— a  corps  d'elite,  as  she  was  always  careful  to  add.  This 
personage,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  was  a  rather  dull, 
good-looking,  simple-minded  man,  horribly  henpecked, 
and  relying  wholly  upon  his  wife's  cleverness  and  money 
for  all  further  advancement;  for  Koader,  or,  rather, 
Madame  Le  Hurec,  as  she  preferred  to  be  called — Le 
Hurec,  in  two  words,  smacked  of  the  aristocracy — was 
very  well  off  in  her  own  right — that  is,  for  the  wife  of  a 
non-com. — and  was  quite  undoubtedly  clever  in  her  way. 

In  coming  to  visit  the  Rouziks  this  good  lady  was 
keenly  alive  to  the  fact  that  Faik  required  a  good  and 
abiding  example  of  perfectly  well-bred  womanhood,  and 
hers  was  also  the  proud  knowledge  that  none  could  be 
better  fitted  than  Madame  Le  Hurec  to  offer  it.  Well 
ballasted,  therefore,  with  lofty  tolerance  and  good  ad 
vice  she  set  upon  her  way. 

The  day  upon  which  she  arrived  from  Enez-Pers  was 
cloudy,  with  occasional  spurts  of  rain  and  slashes  of  pale 
sunshine — a  sort  of  weather  that  spring  is  occasionally 
addicted  to.  A  brisk  sou'west  wind  was  blowing,  the 

213 


GRAY    MIST 

green  waters  of  the  bay  were  flecked  with  whitecaps,  and 
the  twin  peaks  blinked  through  a  transparent  scarf  of 
gray  mist  at  the  vague  and  vaporous  horizon  line. 

As  the  boat  that  was  bearing  her  and  her  pompous 
luggage  rounded  the  jetty  point,  a  succession  of  boisterous 
squalls  were  alternately  shepherding  gleams  of  tossing 
sunshine  and  bursts  of  driving  rain,  and  with  alarming 
cries  a  flight  of  large  gulls,  unsuccessfully  tacking  against 
the  wind,  were  swept  shoreward  like  missiles  sped  by 
some  redoubtable  sprite  hidden  within  certain  green- 
bellied  storm-clouds  that  were  rolling  up  from  the  offing. 
It  seemed  as  though  Pierrek's  old  friends  were  somehow 
bound  to  thrust  a  claw  into  whatever  events  particularly 
concerned  him. 

Lanaik  and  Faik  waited  to  meet  the  traveller  at  the 
landing-place,  both  in  a  very  silent,  uncomfortable  state 
of  mind,  both  utterly  convinced  beforehand  that  Koader's 
visit  would  be  far  from  beneficial  in  its  effect  upon  the 
course  of  future  events. 

"Nevertheless,  my  daughter,"  Lanaik  said,  hurriedly, 
as  the  majestic  form  of  Madame  Le  Hurec  began  to  grow 
distinguishable  through  the  aigrettes  of  spray  spurting 
upward  from  the  cleaving  keel — "nevertheless,  since  Mon 
sieur  le  Recteur  and  your  good  uncle  Karadek  deem  it 
best,  we  must  submit  to  this  vexation.  .  .  .  They  know 
what  they  want!" 

Faik  tossed  her  head  in  a  manner  that  was  not  in  the 
least  submissive.  Had  it  been  possible  she  would  even 
now  have  taken  back  her  word,  and  sent  Koader  pack 
ing,  so  abhorrent  had  the  prospect  become  to  her;  but  it 
was  too  late,  and  with  a  face  by  no  means  welcoming, 
she  turned  to  the  slippery  steps  towards  the  foot  of 
which  the  boat  was  just  drawing  in. 

Assisted  by  a  fierce-faced  fisherman  from  Enez-Pers, 

214 


GRAY    MIST 

who  did  not  even  deign  to  glance  in  the  direction  of  the 
two  waiting  women,  Madame  Le  Hurec  gracefully  dis 
embarked.  Her  finely  -  shaped  hands  held  a  decorous- 
looking  brown  basket  of  the  valise  variety,  and  there  was 
something  that  was  forced  and  artificial,  though  by  no 
means  awkward,  in  the  very  fashion  of  her  slow  ascent 
to  the  top  of  the  stairs.  Hers  was  without  question  a 
beautiful  face,  pale  and  very  cold,  with  rather  too  thin 
level  lips  and  close-set  eyes  of  a  peculiarly  lustreless 
shade  of  jetty  black.  Her  thick  dark  hair  was  slightly 
waved  beneath  an  exquisitely  embroidered  coiffe,  her 
dress  was  made  of  the  most  costly  material  compatible 
with  the  exigencies  of  the  costume  of  her  island — which 
with  a  last  glimmering  of  good  sense  she  had  steadily  re 
fused  to  discard — and  the  silk  and  paillette  work  upon 
her  corsage  was  absolutely  beyond  praise  in  its  mar 
vellous  wealth  of  design  and  execution.  In  spite  of  the 
buffets  of  the  wind  she  endeavored  to  maintain  that 
dignity  which  she  felt  would  offer  so  beneficial  an  ex 
ample  to  Faik,  but  she  was,  nevertheless,  a  little  breath 
less  when  she  reached  the  top,  which  somewhat  curtailed 
the  ceremonious  sentences  she  had  prepared  for  this 
auspicious  moment. 

The  walk  home  was  uneventful,  if  far  from  agreeable, 
and  the  sun  had  decidedly  conquered  the  clouds  for  the 
time  being  when  Faik  stepped  back  courteously  to  let 
her  imposing  guest  enter  the  house.  It  was  that  lady's 
happy  lot  to  consider  herself  the  centre  of  any  situation, 
the  pivot  upon  which  any  possible  event  must  turn,  and 
at  present  the  bona-fide  mission  with  which  she  had  been 
intrusted  by  the  Conan  of  her  c'hlan  and  the  venerable 
Recteur  of  Enez-Pers  filled  her  with  an  extra  importance 
which,  like  the  oil  poured  upon  Aaron,  spread  even  unto 
the  skirts  of  her  garment.  She  bowed  graciously  to 

215 


GRAY    MIST 

Lanaik,  with  a  grand  wave  of  the  hand  towards  the  hos 
pitably  open  door.  "She  could  not  consent,"  she  ex 
plained,  "to  precede  the  mother  of  her  first  cousin!"  and 
overawed,  nolens  volens,  by  her  superb  manner,  Lanaik 
passed  in  first.  The  room  prepared  for  her  at  the  back 
of  the  house  met  with  her  approval,  for  it  seemed  evi 
dent  that  the  young  couple  had  taken  pains  with  it — 
Pierrek,  indeed,  having  scrubbed  it  energetically  the  day 
before,  "to  show,"  as  he  remarked,  laughingly,  "that 
finic  how  one  understood  housekeeping  in  Kermarioker" 
— and  immediately  selecting  the  most  comfortable  chair, 
she  sat  down  with  folded  hands  to  listen  to  Lanaik's 
polite  offers  of  immediate  refreshment. 

Faik  was  conspicuously  silent,  grudgingly  presented 
her  children,  who,  like  herself,  did  not  seem  to  take 
kindly  to  the  stranger,  and  presently  slipped  away  with 
them  into  the  front  garden,  whence  a  good  view  was  ob 
tainable  of  the  path  her  husband  followed  every  night 
when  coming  from  the  harbor. 

Pierrek  appeared  somewhat  before  his  usual  hour,  and 
as  he  climbed  the  irregular  steps  cut  in  the  solid  rock  he 
waved  a  gay  greeting  to  Faik. 

"Has  she  arrived?"  he  asked,  meeting  her  at  the  little 
gate,  and  lifting  Arzel  up  to  kiss  him. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  slowly,  "and  she's  ...  oh!  she's 
worse  than  ever,  so  contemptuous  and  grand!  B-r-r-r 
.  .  .  r-r-r  ...  I  hate  her!" 

Pierrek  laughed.  "I'll  not  let  her  annoy  you,  Faik- 
gez,"  he  said,  cheerfully,  "her  grand  airs  won't  worry  me 
much!"  and  seating  herself  on  the  low  wall  beside  her  he 
swung  his  basket  round  and  opened  it  for  her  in 
spection.  The  water  was  oozing  drop  by  drop  from  the 
sea -weed  covering  the  freshly  -  caught  fish  within,  and 
soon  formed  a  little  pool  on  the  rocky  path,  beside 

216 


GRAY    MIST 

which  Arzel  instantly  sat  down  to  dip  his  dimpled  fin 
gers. 

The  two  lovers — for  lovers  they  were  still,  and  perhaps 
more  than  ever — were  utterly  absorbed  in  the  customary 
exchange  of  the  day's  unimportant  bits  of  news,  when 
the  visitor,  followed  by  Lanaik,  came  out  to  join  them,  a 
tall,  severe  form  in  her  fine  clothes.  She  stood  for  a 
minute  or  two  in  silence,  looking  at  them  from  a  distance, 
and  Gouillas,  always  more  forward  than  his  mate  in  giv 
ing  his  opinion,  hopped  gravely  to  the  edge  of  a  shell- 
bordered  bed  of  pansies  wherein  he  had  been  disporting 
himself,  and  shaking  his  plumes  into  sleeker  shape,  said 
amiably:  "Deomp  da  balea!"1 

For  once  in  her  stately  life  Koader  Le  Hurec  was  guilty 
of  thoroughly  undignified  behavior,  for,  not  having  as 
yet  become  acquainted  with  the  irrepressible  Gouillas, 
she  jumped  clear  into  the  opposite  flower-bed,  which  hap 
pened  to  be  full  of  tender  young  geraniums  not  yet  in 
bud.  Pierrek,  who  had  turned  at  the  noise,  was  doubled 
up  with  silent  laughter,  and  nearly  choked  in  his  efforts 
to  control  himself  sufficiently  to  go  through  the  cere 
mony  of  presentation — a  circumstance  which  fortunately 
Koader  did  not  notice,  being  fully  occupied  in  extricating 
herself  from  the  ruin  of  the  geraniums.  As  for  Lanaik ( 
she  fled  back  into  the  house,  wiping  tears  of  delight  from 
her  eyes.  Faik  alone  remained  perfectly  serious,  for  that 
usually  fun -loving  little  person  when  once  put  out  of 
sorts  was  not  to  be  brought  around  by  trifles. 

"You  must  forgive  me,"  Madame  Le  Hurec  said,  ad 
vancing  at  last  draped  in  such  shreds  of  her  impressive- 
ness  as  had  survived  so  great  a  contretemps;  "my  nerves 
are  high-strung,  and  I  am  not  always  mistress  of  them!" 

1  Let's  go  for  a  walk. 
217 


GRAY    MIST 

A  peasant  born  and  bred  talking  of  her  nerves  was  some 
thing  so  extravagant  that  Pierrek  stared  at  her  open- 
mouthed,  but  even  this  slightly  imbecile  expression  of 
surprise  could  not  prevent  him  from  being  the  strikingly 
handsome  man  he  was,  and  Koader,  turning  her  black 
eyes  upon  him  for  the  first  time,  decided  that  she  had 
never  seen  any  that  could  bear  comparison  with  him. 

Pierrek  himself,  recovering  his  manners,  which,  like 
those  of  most  sailors,  were  excellent,  looked  at  his  new 
relative  with  his  usual  frank  directness,  and  instantly 
realized  that  he  detested  her!  It  came  to  him  like  a 
flash  of  lightning,  that  left  all  his  good  resolutions  for 
making  the  best  of  her  visit  shattered  to  exceedingly 
small  splinters,  and  instead  of  going  forward  to  shake 
her  by  the  hand,  he  contented  himself  with  muttering  a 
mere  conventional  form  of  welcome,  which  caused  the 
amazed  Faik  to  turn  round  and  look  at  him  question- 
ingly. 

Begun  like  this,  Madame  Le  Hurec's  stay  at  Ker- 
marioker  could  not  be  expected  to  be  a  period  of  un 
mixed  bliss,  and  yet,  thanks  to  Koader  herself,  things 
went  almost  easily  at  first.  Indeed,  her  bitterest  enemy 
must  have  been  forced  just  then  to  describe  this  acrid, 
utterly  selfish  and  heartless  woman  as  well  meaning. 
Her  affability  and  apparent  good-nature  were  something 
stupefying,  and  had  her  husband  been  present  he  would 
have  refused  to  believe  the  testimony  of  his  own  eyes! 

She  did  not,  however,  do  all  this  with  the  ease  of  long 
practice,  although  with  the  assurance  of  one  accustomed  to 
be  always  in  the  right,  which  to  a  casual  observer  would 
have  amounted  pretty  much  to  the  same  thing.  She 
beamed  benignantly  upon  Arzel  when  that  young  hopeful 
behaved  in  his  most  aggravating  manner,  closed  her  deli 
cate  ears  to  baby  Tamek's  occasional  lamentings  (for 

218 


GRAY    MIST 

though  a  reasonable  infant  enough,  at  four  months  old 
one  has  not  as  yet  abjured  all  untimely  manifestations  of 
thirst  or  juvenile  anger) ,  and  once  or  twice  she  positively 
verged  on  the  affectionate  with  Faik  herself,  without, 
however,  succeeding  in  hoodwinking  that  quick-witted 
young  woman  for  a  single  instant. 

The  secret  of  so  great  a  change  in  Madame  Le  Hurec's 
entire  plan  of  campaign  was  an  open  one  to  Faik,  but  she 
was  far  too  proud  to  let  any  one,  least  of  all  Pierrek, 
find  it  out  from  her;  and  while  keeping  as  much  out  of 
the  way  of  her  guest  as  she  could,  when  with  her  she  be 
trayed  no  special  animosity,  merely  contenting  herself 
with  holding  her  at  arm's-length  in  a  fashion  and  with  a 
tact  that  might  have  done  honor  to  the  most  expert 
woman  of  the  world,  and  which  in  this  little  fisherman's 
wife  was  nothing  less  than  astounding. 

This  secret — not  indeed  a  very  creditable  one — was 
that  Koader  Le  Hurec,  invulnerable  until  then  within 
the  triple  armor  of  absolute  egotism,  boundless  vanity, 
and  intense  self-love,  was  in  the  way  of  developing  for 
her  cousin's  husband  one  of  those  passions  that  stride 
over  every  barrier  to  their  object,  ignore  duty  and  all  its 
hampering  chains,  and  trample  down  all  foresight,  com 
mon-sense,  and  prudence.  This  gave  her  strength  out 
wardly  to  conquer  for  the  present  her  mad  jealousy  of 
Faik,  and  her  distaste  for  the  quiet  and  humble  life  of  the 
little  household  on  the  cliff.  Also,  in  her  opinion,  it  con 
ferred  upon  her  inalienably  the  right  to  ruin  and  debase 
her  rival  if  occasion  presented.  Her  hopes,  indeed,  were 
of  the  kind  of  which  one  does  not  willingly  speak,  so  un 
usually  regardless  were  they  of  all  other  interests  con 
cerned.  Love — or  what  one  has  agreed  to  call  by  that 
name — works  extraordinary  ravages  in  such  natures  as 
Koader 's,  and  it  really  is  a  thousand  pities  that  this  par- 
is  219 


GRAY    MIST 

ticular  type  of  woman  should  not  have  her — affections — 
under  a  more  effective  control. 

Pierrek  naturally  was  completely  ignorant  of  her  un 
savory  state  of  mind.  He  was  conscious  merely  of  her 
constant  observation  of  him,  but  this  seemed  to  him  to 
have  a  hostile  motive,  and  it  irritated  him  abominably, 
although  with  true  Breton  self-control  he  gave  this  irri 
tation  no  vent  whatsoever  excepting  when  alone  with  his 
wife.  He  was  a  big  innocent  boy  still,  this  father  of  two 
bouncing  babies,  and  never  would  he  have  for  a  second 
imagined  a  woman  to  be  quite  so  vile  as  Koader  would 
have  appeared  to  him  had  he  known  her  true  feelings. 

"You  are  really  a  model  husband!"  the  latter  said  to 
him  once  when  she  found  him  building  up  the  turf  fire 
to  spare  Faik  the  trouble — she  had  been  looking  a  little 
pale,  and  he  felt,  as  he  told  himself,  quite  unreasonably 
anxious. 

He  colored  under  his  tan,  and  said,  bluntly: 

"It  is  easy  to  be  a  good  husband  when  one  has  married 
a  woman  like  Faik!" 

Koader  felt  her  abhorrence  for  Faik  take  unto  itself 
many  additional  yards  of  growth,  but  with  a  skill  and  a 
patience  a  less  clever  woman  would  have  lacked,  she  re 
frained  from  pursuing  the  subject,  and  once  more  man 
aged  not  to  betray  herself.  In  spite  of  her  frequent 
statements,  she  was  a  woman  of  strong  nerves,  and  could 
control  herself  admirably  when  it  suited  her  book  to  do 
so.  But  from  that  morning  the  destruction  of  Faik's 
happiness  became  a  fixed  idea,  almost  independent  of 
her  passion  for  Pierrek,  which,  strangely  enough,  was 
still  perfectly  chaste  in  thought.  Like  the  little  girl  of 
nursery  rhyme  fame,  when  Bretonnes  are  good  they  are 
"very,  very  good,"  and  when  they  are  bad  they  are  just 
as  capable  as  others  of  being  "horrid,"  but  there  is  in 


GRAY    MIST 

their  make-up  an  inborn  and  inbred  chastity  which  it  is 
difficult  to  uproot,  and  therefore,  so  far,  her  keenest  de 
sire  was  to  detach  the  husband  from  the  wife. 

The  week  had  been  extended  to  two,  and  still  not  a 
word  of  the  feud  had  been  pronounced,  nor  was  Koader 
staying  on  by  special  invitation.  She  held  the  place, 
that  was  all,  and  although  sorely  tempted  to  give  her 
a  direct  hint  about  the  desirability  of  her  departure, 
neither  Pierrek  nor  Faik  could  bring  themselves  to  the 
point  of  committing  so  great  a  sin  against  the  laws  of 
kinship — severe  ones,  indeed,  out  Finisterre  way! 

Strangely  enough,  Koader  had  succeeded  in  ingratiat 
ing  herself  with  the  most  redoubtable  personage  in  Ker- 
marioker!  The  virulent  Mari-Gwezek,  always  so  prone 
to  tear  her  neighbors  to  pieces,  approved  of  the  decorous 
Ilienne1  who  treated  her  with  a  singular  deference,  due, 
it  is  not  improbable,  to  the  latter's  swift  perception  of 
the  fact  that  the  former's  tongue  was  a  power  in  the 
land. 

One  afternoon  the  Recteur's  excellent  housekeeper  was 
busily  engaged  in  cleaning  her  copper  saucepans — the 
pride  of  her  heart — which  always  shone  like  small  moons, 
and  humming  the  while  in  her  thin  old  voice  a  most 
lamentable  gwerz?  dealing  with  the  adventures  of  an  ex 
tremely  wicked  seigneur  of  the  long  ago.  This  was  the 
old  lady's  way  of  being  merry,  and  merry  she  was  that 
day,  quite  extraordinarily  so,  for  M.  Kornog  had  gone 
to  the  nearest  market-town  to  buy  a  new  soutane — an 
event  so  rare  and  magnificent  that  his  ever  grumbling 
devoted  servant  felt  her  heart  swell  with  pride.  She 
made  it  a  principle,  did  Mari-Gwezek,  to  live  for  the 
present,  leaving  both  past  and  future  to  take  care  of 

1  Name  given  to  women  from  the  Islands. 

2  Complainte;  otherwise  ballad. 


GRAY    MIST 

themselves,  which,  although  a  comforting  procedure,  is 
perhaps  a  mistaken  one,  since  the  past,  at  any  rate,  only 
sleeps,  and  we  carry  it  "to  our  damn"  all  through  our 
lives,  ready  at  any  moment  to  arise  in  its  might  and 
smite  us  unreservedly. 

The  weather  was  not  particularly  pleasant,  for  a  sour 
wind  was  blowing  from  the  west,  and  Mari-Gwezek 
found  the  proximity  of  the  cheerful  turf  fire  on  the 
hearth  pleasing.  A  footstep  behind  her  made  the  old 
woman  turn  her  head,  half  expecting  to  see  her  master 
standing  there  although  it  was  still  a  little  too  early  for 
him  to  be  home,  but  in  the  doorway  she  perceived  in 
stead  the  fine  erect  figure  of  Madame  Le  Hurec. 

Entreating  Mari-Gwezek  not  to  discontinue  her  occu 
pation,  this  amiable  person  brought  forward  a  chair,  sat 
down  with  that  grand  air  which  stuck  to  her  even  when 
accomplishing  the  simplest  acts,  and  fell  to  admiring  the 
row  of  glittering  utensils  ranged  upon  the  table. 

"My  word,  but  you  do  make  them  shine,  Vamezel 
Kolvestre!"  Nobody  in  Kermarioker  had  ever  paid 
Mari-Gwezek  the  compliment  of  addressing  her  in  that 
ceremonious  manner  by  her  family  name,  and  a  slight 
flush  of  pleasure  rose  to  the  housekeeper's  wrinkled 
cheeks.  "There  is  nothing,"  Madame  Le  Hurec  con 
tinued,  "so  fine  in  my  opinion  as  copper  saucepans  for 
cooking.  Of  course  they're  expensive,  but  they  last  a 
lifetime,  and  when  in  careful  hands  like  yours  they  are 
not  dangerous." 

"You  may  say  so!"  the  gratified  dame  exclaimed.  "I 
make  a  point  of  having  them  retinned  inside  twice  a 
year.  With  that  one  needs  never  fear  verdigris,  not  even 
when  cooking  mushrooms,  which,  let  me  tell  you,  Mon 
sieur  le  Recteur  would  sell  his  little  finger  for!" 

"He  does  not  seem  to  be  much  of  a  gormandizer," 

222 


GRAY    MIST 

smiled  Koader,  smoothing  the  stiff  silken  folds  of  her 
apron.  "A  worthy  priest,  your  Recteur,  Vamezel  Kol- 
vestre.  I  have  a  great  respect  for  him!" 

"Not  bad  hearted — but  ah!  Madame  Le  Hurec,  a 
head!  ...  all  fire  and  flame,  like  gunpowder,  I  assure 
you!"  She  sighed,  gave  a  little  shrug  that  was  full  of 
meaning,  and  fell  to  rubbing  a  fresh  saucepan  with  ex 
treme  complacency. 

"See  this  now!"  she  said,  after  a  short  pause,  brandish 
ing  the  gleaming  casserole.  "I  have  a  secret  of  my  own 
for  making  my  copper  -  cleanser.  Many  people  have 
wanted  to  get  it  from  me,  but  devil  a  bit  will  I  give  it 
away!  No,  not  me!" 

"You  must  be  a  veritable  tomb  for  secrets,  Vamezel 
Kolvestre!  Don't  they  say  that  a  priest's  servant  from 
hearing  such,  gets  her  ears  sorer  all  the  year  round  than 
the  priest  himself  after  the  Lenten  confessions?" 

"That's  true  enough,"  Mari-Gwezek  admitted,  "and  I 
flatter  myself  I  can  keep  my  mouth  shut,  which,  between 
ourselves,  is  more  than  most  women  can  do!  If  I  were 
to  say  all  I  know,  I  could  make  the  whole  Commune  fight 
like  one  man!" 

Koader  had  absent-mindedly  taken  up  an  oval  lid 
from  the  table  edge,  and  was  amusing  herself  by  turning 
it  slowly  backward  and  forward  on  her  knee,  where  the 
light  from  the  window  could  shine  upon  it.  A  gleam  kin 
dled  in  her  eyes  that  had  been  fixed  dreamily  upon  the  ex 
quisite  brilliancy  of  this  humble  kitchen  adjunct,  and  sud 
denly  she  said,  softly,  quite  unconscious  of  speaking  aloud: 

"Exactly  the  color  of  Pierrek's  hair!" 

"  Eh !  What ! ' '  Marie-Gwzek  exclaimed.  ' '  That  scamp 
of  a  Pierrek  .  .  .  and,  by-the-way,  that's  so  ...  it  is  just 
exactly  the  color  of  his  peruke!  What  an  observer  you 
are,  Madame  Le  Hurec!" 

223 


GRAY    MIST 

Koader  felt  herself  flushing  crimson,  and  turning  her 
shoulder  towards  her  hostess  she  pulled  herself  together 
with  a  violent  effort.  She  was  furious  with  herself,  and 
clutching  at  the  first  straw,  she  said,  rather  hurriedly: 
"Oh!  I  don't  mean  that  it  is  an  extraordinary  color  .  .  . 
nor,"  she  added,  gulping  down  her  reluctance  to  belittle 
even  in  such  a  trifle  the  man  she  loved — "nor  a  very 
pretty  one.  It's  odd,  that's  all.  I've  seen  it  before,  of 
course,  although  perhaps  not  so  pronounced!" 

"Sure!  So  have  I  seen  it — often  I've  seen  it  ...  not 
here  at  Kermarioker,  where  the  hair  is  mostly  yellow, 
but  farther  down  the  coast  it's  quite  common.  Here  it 
seems  rarer;  that's  how  you  came  to  notice  it.  Your 
cousin  Faik,  come  to  think  of  it,  must  have  been  dipped 
in  the  same  dye-vat  when  the  blessed  Archangel  Gabriel 
finished  fixing  her  up  before  sending  her  sliding  through 
the  clouds." 

Koader  remained  silent;  she  was  still  too  much  an 
noyed  to  feel  like  speaking. 

"Haven't  you  observed  that?"  Mari-Gwezek  insisted. 
"It's  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  your  face!" 

"Oh!  I  don't  know;  it  did  not  strike  me  particularly. 
To  be  candid,  her  hair  is  not  half  ..."  she  was  going  to 
say  "half  so  beautiful,"  but  caught  herself  just  in  time, 
biting  her  lips  till  the  blood  retreated  from  them.  The 
housekeeper,  however,  her  tongue  once  started,  was  satis 
fied  with  any  sound  that  did  duty  as  an  answer,  so  pay 
ing  no  heed  she  dipped  a  soft  rag  in  her  famous  ' '  copper- 
cleanser"  and  was  off  again,  babbling  like  a  merry  brook. 

"You  should  have  seen  that  rascal  Pierrek's  mop  when 
he  was  a  baby!  People  used  to  give  him  lumps  of  sugar 
to  make  him  take  off  his  little  cap,  and  one  day  at  a  fair 
a  rich  horse-dealer's  wife  put  a  gold-piece  into  his  little 
fist,  because  she  said  he  looked  like  a  real  cherub — a 

224 


GRAY    MIST 

foreign  one  with  a  name  as  long  as  my  arm  that  I  can't 
recall,  but  that  is  in  a  big  church -picture,  I  know,  be 
cause  Hoarve  Rouzik  told  me  afterwards!" 

"Was  Hoarve  Rouzik  a  handsome  man?"  Koader 
asked,  out  of  a  desire  to  demonstrate  her  perfect  ease  of 
mind. 

"Yes  and  no!"  quoth  the  old  dame,  pursing  her  with 
ered  lips.  "A  fine  large  man  rather  than  a  good-looking 
one." 

"Anything  like  .  .  .  Pierrek?"  She  forced  herself  to 
say  the  name  indifferently. 

"Like  Pierrek!"  Mari-Gwezek  dropped  rag  and  sauce 
pan  to  hold  both  hands  above  her  head  in  the  extremity 
of  denial;  then  suddenly  dropping  them  to  her  side,  she 
picked  up  her  work  hurriedly,  and  said,  with  striking  curt- 
ness:  "Not  at  all!" 

"Why,  what  ails  you?"  questioned  Madame  Le  Hurec. 
"Would  there  be  anything  astonishing  in  a  son  looking 
like  his  father?  He  certainly  does  not  look  like  his 
mother  ...  a  pretty  woman  but  somewhat  insipid.  No, 
he  is  not  a  bit  like  her!" 

"Naturally!" 

Madame  Le  Hurec  glanced  at  the  old  woman  beneath 
her  delicately  arched  brows.  "Why  do  you  speak  like 
that?"  she  asked.  "Is  there  any  mystery  connected 
with  Pierrek' s  birth?"  She  was  speaking  quite  idly, 
merely  keeping  the  ball  rolling,  without  giving  any  im 
portance  to  her  question,  and  only  a  very  small  portion 
of  her  woman's  curiosity  was  aroused,  for  knowing  Mari- 
Gwezek  to  be  crochety,  she  imagined  her  to  be  simply 
disinclined  to  joke.  Thus  she  was  thoroughly  unpre 
pared  for  the  effect  produced  by  her  words! 

Down  went  saucepan,  rag,  and  copper  -  cleanser  to 
gether,  the  last  rolling  over  and  over  in  a  sticky  mess 

225 


GRAY    MIST 

upon  the  dazzlingly  wax-painted  brick  floor,  and  Mari- 
Gwezek,  white  as  chalk,  stood  trembling  before  her  as 
tonished  visitor  as  if  suddenly  overtaken  by  a  palsy. 

"What  is  it?"  cried  the  latter,  rising  to  her  feet,  abso 
lutely  panic-stricken.  "What  is  the  matter  with  you, 
my  dear  woman?  Are  you  ill?" 

Poor  Mari-Gwezek,  her  youthful  blue  eyes  wide,  ap 
parently  with  fright,  was  vainly  struggling  for  com 
posure  and  for  speech. 

"Here,  drink  a  glass  of  water!"  cried  the  now  thor 
oughly  alarmed  Koader,  and  flying  to  the  earthen  pod  l 
in  the  corner  she  filled  a  mug  from  its  capacious  flanks, 
and  hurrying  back  held  it  to  the  old  woman's  lips. 

"You  gave  me  a  fine  scare!"  she  said,  as,  somewhat 
revived,  the  patient  was  essaying  a  rather  ghastly  smile. 
"Are  you  often  taken  like  that?" 

"Yes!"  Mari-Gwezek  lied  deliberately  but  somewhat 
breathlessly.  "It  is  a  ...  a  cramp  in  my  liver  ...  I'm 
addicted  to  it!" 

Koader  stared  at  her  for  a  moment  with  pardonable 
incredulity.  "You  should  go  and  see  a  doctor,"  she  said, 
at  last,  with  an  almost  imperceptible  sneer;  "such  things 
are  serious,  and  might  play  you  a  bad  trick,  especially  at 
your  time  of  life!"  She  searched  the  wrinkled  face  with 
merciless  scrutiny,  and  being  a  quick-witted  person,  de 
cided  that  the  source  of  information  was  dried  up  for  the 
day.  Those  thin,  trembling  lips  would  not  open  again 
except  for  trivialities ;  so  with  a  few  further  words  of  ad 
vice,  and  just  enough  conversational  trimmings  to  show 
that  she  accepted  the  liver-cramp  as  a  valid  and  sufficient 
excuse,  this  superior  woman  took  her  leave. 

A  few  minutes  later  she  was  walking  rapidly  down  the 

1  Water-jar. 
226 


GRAY    MIST 

incline  leading  to  the  village.  The  watery  sun  was  set 
ting  rather  waveringly  between  sheets  of  palest  -  lilac 
vapor,  and  the  fissures  of  the  cliffs  were  already  deep 
with  ultramarine  shadow. 

"Liver -cramp!"  muttered  Madame  Le  Hurec,  as  she 
turned  her  back  upon  the  little  valley  and  went  on  tow 
ards  the  Kermario  crags — "liver-cramp,  of  course,  and 
it's  I  who  will  bring  her  a  remedy  for  it,  and  for  her 
silence,  too!" 


CHAPTER  XVI 

Along  the  coast  the  "blind  wave"  do  they  know: 

Far  up  the  cliff  some  wight  may  chance  to  be 
Scanning  the  quiet  blue-green  depths  below 

Fronded  with  weed,  and  bright  anemone; 

Sudden  there  spouteth  from  the  sleeping  sea 
A  wild  white  wrath  of  water,  wondrous  high, 

Which  the  torn  deep  receiveth  roaringly 
On  the  descent — then  calm  the  levels  lie, 
The  man  is  gone:  naught  shows  the  path  he  vanished  by. 

M.  M. 

"GOOD-EVENING,  Madame  Koader!  And  where  are  you 
coming  from  so  gay?" 

So  absorbed  had  Madame  been  in  her  thoughts  that 
she  brought  up  with  a  jerk,  astonished  to  find  herself  op 
posite  Lanaik's  door  with  Lanaik  herself  standing  be 
neath  the  old  climbing  rose-tree  that  had  just  finished 
putting  on  its  delicate  new  spring  outfit. 

"Why,  good -evening  to  you,  Madame  Lanaik!"  she 
affably  retorted,  leaning  familiarly  over  the  little  garden 
gate;  "you  are  going  to  have  a  wealth  of  roses  by-and-by. 
What  a  mass  of  buds,  to  be  sure!" 

Lanaik  had  crossed  the  tiny  plot,  and  was  now  but  a 
few  feet  away.  "Won't  you  come  in  and  rest?"  she 
said,  politely,  "before  climbing  the  cliff-path?" 

"No,  thank  you;  you  are  too  kind.  I  am  late  as  it  is, 
and  your  children  would  be  angry  with  me  if  I  kept 
supper  waiting!" 

"Bah!  Pierrek  has  not  passed  yet  on  his  way  home," 
Lanaik  smilingly  declared.  "He  is  a  good  son,  my 

228 


GRAY    MIST 

Pierrek,  and  he  always  stops  a  minute  to  see  his  old 
mother." 

Madame  Koader  laughed.  "You  are  a  nice  one  to 
speak  of  age!"  she  expostulated,  on  amiability  bent; 
"you  don't  look  five  years  older  than  your  daughter-in- 
law.  Surely  you  must  have  married  very  young!" 

"Yes — I  was  not  much  more  than  a  child  .  .  .  that's 
true!"  the  widow  replied,  with  a  weary  little  sigh.  "It  seems 
long  ago,  though,  when  one  is  left  alone — the  years  drag." 

"Now!  now!  my  dear,"  and  Madame  Le  Hurec  bent 
forward  and  gave  a  tenderly  patronizing  little  pat  to  the 
slender  hands  clasped  upon  the  topmost  bar  of  the  gate; 
"you  must  not  think  of  that!  Remember  what  a  happy 
woman  you  are — comfortably  off,  with  this  nice  little 
home,  and  your  son  so  well  married — if  I  say  it  who 
shouldn't!  What  a  comfort  those  grandchildren  of  yours 
must  be  to  you,  too!  Myself,  I  dote  upon  Arzelaik,  dear 
little  fellow,  so  bright  and  merry — a  regular  burst  of  sun 
shine!" 

"Oh!  he  is  a  beautiful  boy!"  Lanaik  acquiesced,  beam 
ingly.  Really,  Madame  Koader  was  a  remarkably  pleas 
ant  woman!  Why  Faik  and  Pierrek  should  dislike  her  so 
was  beginning  to  seem  incomprehensible  to  her. 

"He  must  remind  you  extremely  of  ...  of  his  father 
at  the  same  age!"  Koader  said,  tentatively,  the  pupils  of 
her  dark  eyes  narrowing  suddenly  to  pin-points  like  those 
of  a  questing  cat. 

"Yes  and  no!"  Lanaik  said,  laughing.  "His  father! — 
my!  but  it  always  seems  funny  to  me  to  think  of  Pierrek 
as  a  father — was  different  in  a  great  many  ways — not 
quite  so  handsome  as  Arzel — that  is,  when  he  was  quite 
a  baby.  Later  on,  after  my  long  illness,  he  changed  for 
the  better,  and,  yes — he  did  look  then  something  like 
Arzel  does  now;  but  not  very  much  so!" 

229 


GRAY    MIST 

"Your  long  illness?"  Koader  asked,  quickly.  "Was  it 
after  Pierrek's  birth — I  mean  immediately  afterwards?" 

"No,  he  was  already  two  years  old,  and  the  trouble 
was  in  my  head — a  fever  of  the  brain  I  think  the  doctor 
called  it.  It  was  caused  by  a  great  fright  I  got!" 

"Dear,  dear!  Perhaps  a  fall?"  Madame  suggested, 
blowing  a  few  grains  of  sand  from  the  top  of  the  nearer 
gate-post,  and  watching  them  in  their  descent  to  the 
ground  with  absorbing  attention. 

"Worse  than  that,  Madame  Koader,  much  worse  than 
that!  You  who  are  not  a  mother  may  not  perhaps  un 
derstand  how  I  felt  .  .  .  but  just  figure  to  yourself  what 
it  was  to  me  when  I  believed  my  little  Pierrek  to  have 
been  drowned!" 

"Drowned!"  There  was  not  a  vestige  of  color  left  in 
Koader's  smooth  cheeks,  and  she  trembled  so  visibly 
that  Lanaik  stepped  back  in  alarm. 

"My  dear  Madame  Koader,"  she  said,  deeply  con 
cerned,  "I  am  afraid  I  startled  you!  Did  you  ever  lose 
any  one  you  loved  in  that  way?" 

"Yes,"  Koader  said,  with  sudden  fierceness,  "yes — 
and  it  made  me  the  woman  I  am  to-day!  They  say  I'm 
hard-hearted,  bah! — but  pray  tell  me  about  Pierrek  .  .  . 
I'm  all  right  now,  only  there  are  things  ...  I  don't  like 
to  think  of,  and" — relapsing  into  her  usual  languidly 
precieuse  manner — "my  poor  nerves  are  so  wretchedly 
delicate.  I'm  such  a  sufferer,  although  I  never  com 
plain,  as  you  may  have  noticed." 

Poor,  simple  -  hearted,  unsophisticated  Lanaik  looked 
up  thoroughly  bewildered,  quite  dazed  by  these  chame 
leonic  transformations,  and  fell  to  excusing  herself  anew. 

"I  had  no  idea  I  was  going  to  hurt  you  like  that;  I  am 
so  sorry — but  you  are  regaining  your  color  ow — not 
that  you  ever  have  much.  You  look  better;  still  you 

230 


THE    RACK    OF    LANAIK  S    HOUSE 


GRAY    MIST 

should  wait  for  Pierrek;  that  steep  path  may  be  too 
much  for  you!" 

Koader  began  to  feel  annoyed.  "Enough,  enough!" 
she  interrupted.  "Please  don't  apologize  —  how  could 
you  know — besides  it's  my  fault  for  being  so  easily  up 
set.  And  so  your  malady  took  the  form  of  believing 
that  your  boy  had  been  .  .  .  drowned!"  She  hesitated 
over  the  last  word  just  a  little. 

"It  was  not  all  imagination,"  Lanaik  now  wholly  re 
assured  interposed,  "since  my  poor  Hoarve  found  him  in 
the  sea  after  searching  for  him  ever  so  long — the  Saints 
must  have  led  him  by  the  hand  to  the  place!" 

"Floating  in  the  sea!  My  good  friend,  your  fever 
must  have  been  violent.  Why,  that's  a  regular  fairy  tale 
you're  spinning  ...  or  perhaps  you  are  merely  laughing 
at  me.  It's  quite  allowable,  you  know,  to  hoax  stran 
gers!" 

Lanaik  drew  back  offended.  "I'm  afraid  you  must 
think  very  poorly  of  our  manners  in  Kermarioker,  Ma 
dame  Le  Hurec,"  she  remarked,  coldly,  looking  every 
whit  as  dignified  as  Madame  herself  could  have  done. 
"We  take  no  such  liberties  with  our  guests  here,  and 
what  I  told  you  is  the  absolute  truth!  Of  course  you 
can  believe  it  or  not  at  your  pleasure!" 

"My  dear  creature!  Naturally  I  believe  you,  if  that's 
the  way  you  take  it.  You  must  confess,  nevertheless, 
that  it's  a  strange  story — a  baby  of  two  years  taken 
away  and  brought  considerately  back  again  by  our  ter 
rible  sea — it  does  sound  curious!" 

"Nevertheless,  it's  the  truth,  as  the  Saints  hear  me," 
Lanaik  asserted,  quietly.  "But  see  here,  Madame  Le 
Hurec,  I'll  be  your  debtor  if  you  will  promise  me  never 
to  speak  to  Pierrek  about  this.  His  dear  father  made 
me  swear  not  to  tell  him — I  don't  know  why,  but  Hoarve" 

231 


GRAY    MIST 

was  a  wise  man  who  spoke  no  idle  words,  and  you'd  dis 
oblige  me  more  than  you  can  think  if  you  made  me  un 
true  to  my  promise!" 

"She  must  have  been  as  mad  as  a  March  hare!"  Koader 
reflected.  "Doubtless  her  husband  invented  this  rig 
marole  to  pacify  her  for  some  purpose  of  his  own;"  and 
aloud  she  said,  in  her  most  winning  manner,  "You  can 
count  on  me.  I'm  no  great  gossip  anyhow" — which 
strangely  enough  was  true — ' '  and  since  you  feel  like  that 
about  it  I'd  sooner  cut  off  my  tongue  than  betray  your 
confidence!  But  now  I  must  really  go;  it's  getting  quite 
dark,  and  I'm  an  awful  coward — nervousness,  you  know, 
all  nervousness  ...  I'm  not  responsible  for  it!" 

"Won't  you  wait  for  Pierrek  in  that  case?"  Lanaik 
forced  herself  to  say. 

"No!"  Madame  Koader  exclaimed,  with  curious  em 
phasis.  "No,  certainly  not!  Good-night!" 

"Well,  she's  a  queer  one!"  Lanaik  muttered  to  herself, 
as  she  leaned  over  the  gate  to  watch  the  tall,  black-robed 
figure  with  its  wealth  of  gleaming  embroideries  walk 
firmly  up  the  winding  path  beyond  the  blind  crossing, 
one  of  the  branches  of  which  led  to  nowhere.  There  was 
always  a  certain  suggestion  of  incongruity  about  Ma 
dame  Koader 's  attitudes,  her  very  manner  of  setting 
down  her  large,  well-shaped  foot  struck  a  note  of  energy 
and  obstinacy  that  did  not  altogether  tally  with  the 
subtle  air  of  melancholy  and  romance  which  she  man 
aged  to  draw  about  herself  like  some  sculpturally  draped 
mantle. 

Having  lost  sight  of  Lanaik,  Koader  changed  to  a  dif 
ferent  being.  The  dignified  gait  was  abandoned,  her  eyes 
lost  their  languid  droop,  and  her  whole  person  seemed  to 
become  extraordinarily  alert  and  wide  awake,  revealing 
the  real  woman,  shorn  of  all  pose.  The  human  mind  is 

232 


GRAY    MIST 

a  strange  and  cavernous  storehouse,  where  memories 
that  have  slept  for  years  under  deep  accumulations  of 
other  and  more  recent  impressions,  suddenly  start  up  at 
the  merest  touch  as  vivid  in  contour  and  coloring  as  the 
amazing  mural  paintings  of  the  pyramids,  which,  after 
an  age  -  long  entombment  beneath  those  stupendous 
weights  of  stone,  are  revealed  in  all  their  pristine  fresh 
ness  by  the  gleam  of  a  hand-lamp,  and  take  the  on-looker 
utterly  aback.  Without  wishing  to  premise  any  corre 
sponding  clearness  of  vision,  it  may  nevertheless  be  said 
that  the  wife  of  Brigadier  Le  Hurec — "that  gold-laced 
coxcomb,"  as  Faix  mockingly  called  him — was  undergo 
ing  an  analogous  experience  as  she  followed  the  windings 
of  the  rock-hewn  path.  Her  life  had  perhaps  not  been 
quite  so  blissful  a  one  as  she  would  have  had  the  world 
believe,  nor  was  she  herself  perchance  the  absolutely 
hardened  and  unfeeling  woman  she  was  supposed  to  be; 
at  any  rate,  Lanaik's  words  had  been  a  lamp  that  stirred 
many  shadows,  and  dimly  disclosed  many  supposedly 
forgotten  pictures,  and  there  was  an  uncomfortable 
throb  in  her  throat  and  an  unaccustomed  moisture  in  her 
eyes  just  then. 

"Why  couldn't  that  chattering  woman  have  left  the 
past  alone?"  she  said,  suddenly,  almost  aloud,  stepping 
aside  and  halting  at  the  extreme  edge  of  the  first  cornice 
and  gazing  vacantly  before  her.  A  soft,  pearly  mist  was 
creeping  along  the  wave-crests  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet 
below,  wholly  blanketing  the  sea,  but  above  this  the  rem 
nants  of  daylight  still  lingering  behind  the  vanished  sun 
hovered  with  peculiar  tenderness,  as  if  loath  to  depart 
from  so  soft  a  bed,  and  darkness  was  as  yet  far  off. 

"I  hate  to  be  reminded  of  it!"  she  said  again,  passion 
ately,  and  with  a  flash  of  apparently  unconquerable  rage 
she  stamped  upon  the  verge  of  the  crag  viciously,  child- 

233 


GRAY    MIST 

ishly,  as  any  other  angry  woman  might  have  done.  A 
few  bits  of  stone  displaced  by  her  foot  bounced  down 
ward  with  a  gravelly  rattle,  and  reached  the  bottom  be 
fore  she  moved  again.  "I  hate  it  ...  poor  little  .  .  .  !" 
With  a  shudder  that  shook  her  from  head  to  foot  she 
paused,  as  though  to  listen  to  the  muffled  booming  of 
the  invisible  sea,  but  really  only  conscious  of  a  painful 
buzzing  in  her  head,  of  a  desperate  effort  to  apprehend 
something  that  eluded  her,  to  formulate,  to  co-ordinate 
sensations — less  than  sensations  even,  that  seemed  to  re 
cede  as  soon  as  she  felt  that  they  were  taking  shape. 
Her  lips  had  unaccountably  become  dry  and  parched, 
and  she  put  one  hand  gropingly  to  her  forehead.  Sud 
denly  she  heard  a  step  behind  her,  and  before  she  could 
attempt  to  draw  back  from  her  perilous  position  a  strong 
hand  seized  her  arm. 

"That's  a  foolish  thing  to  do!"  Pierrek's  voice  said, 
severely;  "I  thought  you'd  have  been  over  before  I  could 
reach  you.  Besides,  there  are  sometimes  blind  waves 
here  at  high  tide,  and  in  this  sort  of  weather!" 

Koader  was  swaying  in  his  grasp  as  if  about  to  faint, 
and  he  drew  her  masterfully  to  the  other  side  of  the 
narrow  cliff-cornice.  The  tremor  that  shook  her  was  not 
simulated,  and  for  once  in  her  life  she  could  truthfully 
have  asserted  that  she  could  not  help  it;  also  she  was 
quite  unable  to  speak. 

"There  now,  sit  down  a  bit  on  this  ledge,  cousin!" 
Pierrek  said,  almost  kindly.  "My  mother  told  me  to 
hurry,  because  you  were  afraid  when  it  grows  dark;  but 
by  all  the  living  sardines,  you  must  be  a  bold  woman  to 
risk  your  life  looking  at  a  fog-bank!" 

"I  ...  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  me!"  she 
murmured  in  a  trembling  voice.  "I  have  never  suffered 
from  vertigo!" 

234 


GRAY    MIST 

"I  dare  say.  You  shouldn't,  you  women  of  Enez- 
Pers.  But  there's  a  beginning  to  everything,  and  I 
don't  advise  you  to  try  such  tricks  again,  more  especially 
in  the  season  of  the  blind  waves!" 

"Blind  waves!"1  she  echoed,  with  a  little,  hysterical 
laugh.  "There  are  none  in  these  parts!  Higher  up  or 
lower  down  I  don't  say,  but  here!" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  there  are,  and  right  here,  too! 
Two  years  ago  an  oysterman  from  Mastrik  walking  along 
this  very  path  was  gathered  up  by  one  within  sight  of 
his  mate  as  he  was  bending  over  that  rock  out  there — 
see,  you  can  just  make  it  out,  to  the  right,  beyond  the 
Mad  Monk's  Nose2 — and  he  never  rose  again." 

Leaning  against  the  cliff-wall  Koader  was  gazing  up  at 
Pierrek,  and  not  at  all  at  the  Mad  Monk's  Nose.  "I 
wonder  what  they  are?"  she  said,  without  the  least  tinge 
of  curiosity  in  her  voice,  anxious  only  to  prolong  this  to 
her  delicious  tete-a-tete. 

"So  do  a  great  many  people,"  he  replied,  gravely. 
"They  are  awful  things.  I  don't  think  that  I  am  a 
coward,  but  of  those  I  am  afraid,  I  can  tell  you.  I've 
seen  two — from  a  distance,  fortunately — and,"  he  con 
cluded,  hitching  up  his  fish-basket  by  the  strap  prepara 
tory  to  starting  on  again,  "I  hope  I'll  never  see  the 
third — nor  feel  it  either,  for  three  is  my  unlucky  num 
ber." 

Koader  possessed  a  very  useful  social  gift,  that  of  in 
tuition.  It  was  almost  dangerous  to  think  when  those 
black  eyes  of  hers  were  upon  one's  face,  and  she  read 

1  In  French  "Lames  sourdes,"  literally  "deaf-waves."     Sud 
den  waves  of  inexplicable  origin  that  shoot  up  out  of  a  perfectly 
calm  sea.     They  frequently  leap  to  a  great  height,   and  often 
cause  great  destruction  and  loss  of  life. 

2  A  peculiarly  shaped  projection  of  the  cliff. 

16  235 


GRAY    MIST 

Pierrek's  thoughts  now  with  a  precision  that  made  him 
look  surprisedly  at  her. 

"You  are  consigning  me  to  a  very  warm  place  for 
keeping  you  so  long  away  from — from  home,"  she  re 
marked,  rising  brusquely  to  her  feet,  "although  you're 
too  polite  to  say  so.  Let's  go  on,"  she  concluded,  with 
an  embarrassed  little  laugh  that,  like  everything  else  she 
did  this  evening,  was  not  at  all  in  accordance  with  her 
usual  manner,  "or  else  Faik  will  be  jealous!" 

Pierrek  gave  vent  to  a  burst  of  genuinely  amused 
laughter.  "Jealous!  Faik!"  he  exclaimed.  "How  little 
you  know  her!  She's  far  too  pretty  to  be  jealous  of  any 
body,  even  if  she  didn't  know  that  there's  but  one  woman 
in  the  world  for  me!" 

Without  a  word  Koader  passed  before  him  and  began 
to  climb  the  narrow  path.  She  could  at  that  moment 
have  joyfully  pushed  him  over  the  edge;  there  was  a  bit 
terness  in  her  mouth  like  the  taste  of  aloes,  and  before 
her  eyes  red  dots  kept  dancing  up  and  down  like  wicked 
little  farfadets.1  "Faik — always  Faik!  the  only  woman 
in  the  world  for  him!"  Had  that  pretty  white  neck  of 
hers  been  between  Madame  Le  Hurec's  fingers  she  felt 
that  she  could  have  wrung  it  like  a  chicken's,  and  ex 
ulted  over  the  chance. 

"Don't  go  so  fast!"  came  Pierrek's  clear  voice  behind 
her.  "You'll  be  making  yourself  dizzy  again.  Want 
me  to  give  you  a  hand  over  that  last  rise?  It's  like  a 
ladder!" 

"No,  thank  you!  Don't  trouble  about  me!"  she  could 
not  refrain  from  saying  witheringly  over  her  shoulder, 
and  for  a  reward  she  divined  the  words  "ill-tempered 
cat"  that  Pierrek  was  keeping  with  difficulty  between  his 
teeth. 

1  Fairies. 
236 


GRAY    MIST 

Whether  Faik  was  jealous  or  not  Pierrek  was  not 
destined  to  find  out  from  her  that  night,  for  she  received 
the  homing  pair  as  though  their  thus  arriving  together 
were  the  most  natural  thing  to  happen,  though  Koader, 
who  was  once  more  mistress  of  all  her  faculties,  observed 
with  inward  delight  a  singular  green  gleam  in  her  eyes  as 
they  entered  the  lighted  room.  To  see  her  cousin  suf 
fering  would  be  some  slight  compensation  to  her,  and  a 
little  warmth  crept  back  into  her  pale  cheeks  at  the  mere 
thought  of  such  a  possibility. 

The  simple  supper  was  a  silent  function.  Pierrek  alone 
seemed  hungry,  and  the  two  women  sitting  side  by  side 
on  the  edge  of  the  high  hearth-stone  made  no  pretence  of 
eating,  each  occupying  herself  with  the  children  in  order 
to  distract  the  other's  attention  from  the  continued 
plenitude  of  her  plate.  As  soon  as  they  could  decently 
do  so  they  both  rose,  Faik  to  busy  herself  with  the  dishes, 
and  Koader  to  take  little  Arzel  on  her  lap  and  tell  him  a 
story — as  she  had  frequently, done  of  late. 

A  glorious  moon  was  shining  outside,  and  Pierrek, 
lighting  his  pipe,  strolled  out  to  sit,  as  was  his  custom, 
on  the  garden  wall  while  smoking  it.  Nobody  could  have 
accused  him  of  being  an  enthusiastic  admirer  of  nature's 
beauties,  but  the  view  that  met  his  sight  made  him  give 
a  little  grunt  of  pleasure.  The  clouds  had  entirely  dis 
appeared  from  a  sky  of  transparent  blue,  thickly  pow 
dered  with  faint  stars,  but  the  white  mist — now  rolling  in 
ethereally  delicate  undulations  of  silver — still  hung  above 
the  mysterious  sea-depths  that  purred  drowsily  under  its 
soft  caress.  The  fog-damp  glazed  the  dark  escarpments 
of  the  cliffs,  and  made  them  glisten  as  though  cased  in 
thinnest  crystal,  and  just  as  the  young  man  reached  his 
favorite  place  on  the  wall  the  revolving  green  flame  of 
the  distant  light-house  swung  shoreward,  turning  every- 

237 


GRAY    MIST 

thing  around  him  into  solid  emerald.  Unconsciously  im 
pressed,  Pierrek  waited  to  seat  himself  until  the  sword- 
like  ray  had  brusquely  flashed  away  once  more  and  the 
cold  moonlight  had  resumed  its  empire  of  purity,  frost 
ing  every  twig  and  blade  of  grass,  and  drawing,  with  the 
aid  of  the  ivy  leaves  along  the  wall-crest,  patterns  of 
clear  precision  on  the  flagged  garden  walk  at  his  feet. 

A  light  breeze  passed  suddenly  across  his  face.  The 
night  wind  was  beginning  to  blow;  the  sea- voice  changed 
to  loud  moanings,  rising  and  falling  like  the  labored 
breathings  of  some  nightmare-ridden  monster,  and  some 
how  Pierrek  began  to  think  with  intense  discomfort  of 
Madame  Koader,  and  of  Faik's  pale  face  at  supper.  A 
slight  rustle  made  him  turn  his  head,  and  there  in  a 
white  patch  of  moonshine  close  to  him  stood  Faik  her 
self,  looking  strangely  tired  and  wan.  For  a  second  he 
kept  his  eyes  upon  her,  almost  startled  by  the  fixity  of 
her  gaze,  and  all  at  once  a  thousand  things  that  they  had 
never  told  each  other  seemed  to  become  almost  magi 
cally  clear  and  definite.  Then  they  sat  down  side  by 
side,  and  for  a  long  while  neither  spoke — apparently  there 
was  no  longer  any  need  for  words.  At  last  from  the  half- 
open  door  of  the  house  a  small,  sleepy  voice  was  heard, 
saying:  "Tell  me  another  ...  a  long  .  .  .  long  story, 
Auntie  Koader  .  .  .  and  then  I'll  go  to  sleep  right  away!" 

"He  has  her  fast!"  Pierrek  whispered,  with  a  mis 
chievous  twinkle  in  his  gray  eyes,  and  Faik  smiled  faint 
ly.  "I'm  glad  of  it,"  Pierrek  resumed,  laying  his  pipe 
down  beside  him  on  the  wall  and  taking  Faik's  listless 
little  fingers  into  his  strong  brown  ones.  The  charm  had 
been  broken  by  that  baby  voice,  and  he  would  speak 
now.  "I'm  glad  of  it,  Faik,  because  she  annoys  me.  I 
do  not  think  we  can  stand  her  much  longer.  You  are 
tiring  yourself  in  trying  to  entertain  her,  and  it  is  not  for 

238 


GRAY    MIST 

us  poor  people  to  sacrifice  peace  for  matters  of  that 
sort!" 

Still  Faik  said  nothing;  her  little  face  might  have  been 
cut  in  alabaster  for  all  the  expression  and  life  it  pos 
sessed  just  then. 

"You  see,"  he  continued,  speaking  in  the  slightly 
drawling  monotone  of  the  coast-Breton,  "I'm  not  quite 
at  my  ease  about  why  she's  staying  on  and  on  like  this. 
She  has  a  reason,  of  course,  but  I  can't  imagine  what 
that  reason  is!"  The  merest  ghost  of  a  smile  glided 
across  Faik's  serious  lips,  and  was  gone  before  he  could 
notice  it.  "She  may  be  simply  spying;  she  has  the  air 
of  an  eavesdropper  and  a  person  that's  none  too  frank — 
don't  you  think  so,  Faik-gez?" 

"Perhaps!" 

"Or  else  she's  been  doing  something  not  to  her  credit, 
and  is  keeping  away  from  her  husband.  I  don't  like  to 
say  things  like  that  before  you,  but  ...  I  don't  know 
why — she  doesn't  seem  to  me  to  be  a  good  woman." 

The  ghostly  smile  was  there  again,  but  now  it  had  ex 
tended  to  the  eyes,  which  for  a  swift  instant  burned 
green,  like  the  pharos-flame. 

"I've  made  up  my  mind,  anyhow,  to  tell  her  to  go." 
Her  husband's  face  was  in  shadow,  but  Faik  did  not  need 
to  look  at  him  to  know  that  the  grim  black  cross  was 
barring  his  brow  now,  and  that  he  was  in  one  of  his 
harshest,  most  determined  moods.  "If  she  has  some 
thing  on  her  mind  she  must  hurry  up  and  tell  it,"  he 
went  on,  unconsciously  tightening  his  hold  on  the  mo 
tionless  little  fingers.  "I  don't  care  a  damn  about  her 
manoeuvrings  with  regard  to  those  scoundrels  of  Enez- 
Pers  .  .  .  she  does  not  appear  to  carry  Enez-Pers  in  her 
heart  as  far  as  one  can  judge!" 

"Why  should  she?  She's  not  from  Enez-Pers!"  The 

239 


GRAY    MIST 

words  were  said,  very  quietly,  but  with  a  queer  little  un 
derlying  note  of  triumph.  Perhaps  Faik  was  glad  not  to 
be  obliged  to  lay  this  supreme  opprobrium  to  Enez-Pers' 
account. 

"Not  from  Enez-Pers?"  Pierrek  asked  in  astonish 
ment.  He  had  never  spoken  much  to  Faik  of  her  Island 
or  her  family,  two  delicate  subjects  under  the  circum 
stances.  "Why,  where  is  she  from,  then?" 

"From  Bar-Avel1 — a  good  name  for  her  birthplace. 
Her  father  and  mother  lived  there  all  their  lives,  and 
when  they  died  my  parents  adopted  her.  After  their 
death  she  went  to  live  with  some  relatives  in  Chataulin, 
where  she  was  brought  up  like  a  Demezel,2  and  that's  why 
she's  so  proud!" 

Pierrek  brought  his  shoulders  to  the  level  of  his  ears, 
and  then  drew  them  down  slowly,  accompanying  this 
gesture  of  profound  contempt  with  a  low  whistle.  "Bet 
ter  for  her  to  have  remained  in  her  stormy  Bar-Avel. 
An  imitation  of  anything  at  all  disgusts  me,  because  the 
truth  shows  through  and  makes  it  look  what  it  is,  which 
means  not  worth  two  sous!" 

"You'd  sooner  have  a  simple  peasant  then,  even  if 
that  isn't  so  fine?"  There  was  a  little  tremor  of  anguish 
in  the  question,  but  far  too  slight  to  be  noticed. 

"A  simple  peasant  ...  I  should  think  so!  You  see, 
my  girl,  I  wouldn't  find  rancid  butter  any  tastier  because 
treacle  was  spread  thick  upon  it;  and  it's  like  that  with 
your  cousin ;  she  is  not  fit  to  be  under  the  same  roof  with 
you,  in  spite  of  her  beautiful  coat  of  varnish.  Remem 
ber  Tad-Askol's  old  sloop  that  he  painted  and  polished 
up  so  grandly  to  make  her  fit  to  be  sold?  Well,  she  went 
on  rotting  beneath  the  paint,  and  drowned  those  poor 

1  Bar-Avel  means  squall,  or  tempest.  2  Demoiselle. 

240 


GRAY    MIST 

devils  from  Doanuizker  who'd  been  hoodwinked  into 
buying  her!  No!  No!  Madame  Koader  Le  Hurec  must 
go,  that's  my  last  word!" 

Almost  imperceptibly  Faik  had  drawn  closer  to  her 
husband,  and  suddenly  she  found  herself  in  his  arms. 

"My  little  Faik-gez,"  he  whispered,  bending  his  hand 
some  head  until  his  cheek  rested  caressingly  against  the 
little  curls  on  her  forehead,  "you  are  like  a  Madonna  to 
me,  too  pure  to  be  put  side  by  side  with  women  like  that 
Demezel!  You  are  my  wife,  the  mother  of  my  boys,  my 
own,  own  girl,  who  is  like  nothing  else  in  the  world.  .  .  . 
Oh!  you  are  more  than  that,  but  I  can't  tell  you  just 
what  I  feel;  my  tongue  is  always  tied  when  I'm  near  you, 
and  I  get  stupid  and  dumb!" 

Two  tears,  round  as  the  beads  of  a  crystal  rosary,  were 
hanging  to  Faik's  long  eyelashes,  and  he  stooped  and 
kissed  them  away.  "Don't  cry!"  he  pleaded,  very  low. 
"To-morrow  we'll  be  by  ourselves  again,  and  you  will  be 
singing  once  more!  And  now,"  he  said,  straightening 
his  broad  shoulders  and  speaking  in  his  ordinary,  some 
what  imperative  manner,  "she  will  be  coming  out  here, 
for  Arzelaik  must  be  asleep.  Slip  into  the  house,  and 
leave  her  to  me!" 

Faik,  sliding  to  her  feet,  looked  at  him  for  the  fraction 
of  a  second,  and  with  a  sudden  feeling  of  absolute  con 
tent,  turned  and  obeyed  him. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

When  grays  the  dawn,  and  in  the  room 
Dim  shapes  define  amid  the  gloom, 
Then  furtive  feet  pace  there  and  here, 
And  worn  eyes  through  the  shutters  peer 
Where  the  cold  east  begins  to  bloom. 

Then  little  prowling  winds  exhume 
The  dead  world  from  her  misty  tomb, 
Cereclothed  and  rigid  on  her  bier, 
When  grays  the  dawn. 

And  deep  in  Memory's  caverned  womb 

Dark  Anguish  labors  at  her  loom. 

"Thank  God,  the  sun!" — spear  after  spear 
Far- piercing,  glorious,  golden-clear! 

Oh,  pray  that  Slumber  stir  no  plume 

When  grays  the  dawn! 

M.  M. 

PIERREK  waited  calmly  for  Madame  Koader,  and  did 
not  have  long  to  wait  either,  for,  as  he  had  surmised,  she 
soon  appeared,  walking  in  her  stately  way  down  the 
short  path.  She  had  tried  most  methods — and  she  pos 
sessed  many — utterly  in  vain  to  attract  Pierrek.  She 
had  attempted  to  coax,  to  dazzle,  to  pique,  to  overawe, 
to  win,  but  the  result  spelled  failure,  and  she  knew  it. 
She  was  determined  now  to  use  her  last  reserve,  a  blunt 
avowal  of  her  feelings,  and  what  this  last  reserve  might 
bring  about  she  herself  was  not  quite  certain,  for  Pierrek 
and  Pierrek's  vagaries  were  uncertain  quantities,  even  to 
her  shrewdness. 

242 


GRAY    MIST 

She  looked  her  best  as  she  stopped  in  front  of  him  ex 
actly  on  the  spot  where  Faik  had  just  stood,  her  delicate 
complexion  enhanced  by  a  suspicion  of  pink,  her  black 
eyes  shining  like  onyx  in  the  moonlight.  This  was  not 
by  any  means  a  Breton  type  of  womanhood,  nor  one  that 
possessed  any  seductions  for  Pierrek,  but  still  he  con 
fessed  to  himself  much  against  his  will  that  she  was  cer 
tainly  exceedingly  handsome! 

He  was  no  diplomat,  was  poor  Pierrek — the  word  even 
would  have  been  as  unintelligible  to  him  as  it  had  been 
once  to  Mari-Gwezek — and  his  entree  en  matiere  lacked 
the  very  rudiments  of  finesse! 

"You'll  have  fine  weather  for  your  return  trip,"  he 
said,  beaming  upon  her  as  though  imparting  the  most 
welcome  piece  of  news,  and  with  a  sweep  of  his  arm  he 
indicated  the  peeping  stars,  the  smiling  moon,  and  the 
silver-shrouded  horizon  where  Enez-Pers  lay  concealed. 

Not  a  muscle  of  Koader's  calm  face  moved.  The  faint 
rose  of  her  cheeks  vanished,  and  the  gleam  in  her  eyes 
went  out  like  a  snuffed  candle,  but  not  by  the  slightest 
gesture  did  she  betray  her  feelings. 

"For  your  return  trip  to  Enez-Pers,"  Pierrek  amiably 
insisted,  "good  winds,  a  flat  sea,  and  no  prospect  of 
storm!" 

Had  he  but  known  it,  storm  of  another  kind,  and  in 
nearest  possible  prospect,  was  gathering  at  that  moment, 
but  without  one  premonitory  ripple. 

"Yes,"  Madame  Koader  said,  quietly,  "I  think  it  will 
continue  fine  for  the  rest  of  the  month."  (This  was  the 
fourth  day  of  May,  and  Pierrek  started  perceptibly.) 
"Your  hospitality,  my  cousin,  is  so  enjoyable  that  I  can 
not  make  up  my  mind  to  leave  you  all  quite  yet.  More 
over,  the  object  of  my  visit  has  not  been  accomplished!" 

Pierrek  was  staring  in  amazement  at  the  placid  face; 

243 


GRAY    MIST 

the  even  tone  and  perfect  control  of  the  harmonious 
voice  grated  upon  him  unendurably,  and,  as  he  would 
have  expressed  it,  he  was  losing  his  bearings  somewhat. 

"You  mean  this  imbecile  mix-up  between  your  people 
and  ours?"  he  questioned,  keeping  hold  of  his  own  collar, 
metaphorically  speaking,  to  prevent  his  ending  the  in 
terview  then  and  there,  sailor-fashion,  and  all  sails  to  the 
wind!  The  unparalleled  impudence  of  Madame  Koader 
was  fast  rousing  the  devil  in  him. 

' '  Of  course !  That  is  what  I  came  here  for ;  at  least  to 
try  and  put  an  end  to  this  unfortunate  affair." 

"And  doubtless  that  is  also  why  you  have  not  made 
one  step  nor  said  one  word  in  that  direction  for  a  fort 
night!" 

"Faik  has  been  asking  him  to  send  me  away,"  thought 
Koader.  "I'll  pay  her  out  for  this  with  the  rest!"  and 
majestically  sitting  down  on  the  ivy-garlanded  wall,  she 
said,  aloud:  "During this  fortnight  my  ideas  have  changed 
concerning  the  feud  .  .  .  and  many  other  things  besides." 

Pierrek  rose,  and  in  his  turn  stood  before  her,  his  face 
in  shadow.  "Perhaps,"  he  said,  curbing  his  exaspera 
tion,  "you  will  be  so  good  as  to  tell  me — since  I  am  sup 
posed  to  be  the  leader  of  the  Kermarioker  gars — what 
you  propose  to  do!" 

Deep  as  a  well  was  Madame  Koader,  and  by  no  means 
lacking  in  that  savoir-faire  which  had  been  so  conspicu 
ously  omitted  from  Pierrek's  otherwise  exceedingly  sat 
isfactory  make-up.  To  push  matters  to  a  crisis  now 
would  mean  an  irreparable  break,  with  no  chance  what 
soever  of  approaching  Pierrek  again,  and  although  al 
most  bursting  with  fury,  she  was  far  too  wise  to  pre 
cipitate  matters,  so  making  a  volte  -  face  of  the  most 
pronounced  character,  she  forced  herself  to  smile,  and 
with  a  look  of  angelic  suavity  said,  gently: 

244 


GRAY    MIST 

"Did  you  think  that  I  would  decide  upon  a  single 
point  without  first  consulting  with  you,  my  cousin?  The 
situation — although  you  may  have  believed  that  I  gave 
it  but  scant  attention — is  far  more  complicated  than  I 
at  first  believed.  I  have  had  some  serious  talks  with 
that  excellent  man,  your  ex-guardian,  and  also  with  your 
mother,  Pierrek,  who  is  a  remarkably  clear-sighted  wom 
an.  Moreover,  I  have  communed  with  myself,  and  have 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  your  wife  alone  can  satis 
factorily  bring  affairs  to  a  finish!" 

"Faik!     What  has  she  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"Why,  everything,  it  seems  to  me.  She  is  the  cause 
of  the  feud,  is  she  not?" 

"Well  ...  of  course  .  .  .  certainly,  the  innocent  cause!" 
Pierrek  said,  gazing  at  her  in  bewilderment. 

"The  innocent  cause — naturally!"  she  replied,  in  that 
well-modulated  even  tone  of  voice  he  disliked  so  greatly. 
"But  innocent  or  not  .  .  .  she  is  the  direct  cause,  and  she 
alone  can  put  a  stop  to  what  she  has  brought  about!" 

"And  how?"  he  asked,  impatiently,  coming  a  step 
nearer. 

"By  telling  Kenderf  l  Klaoda  that  she  wishes  the  hos 
tilities  to  cease!" 

"What's  that  you  say?"  he  asked,  in  a  low  voice  that 
anger  hoarsened.  "You  want  my  wife  to  go  and  ask 
favors  from  that  drunken  brute?  Are  you  serious, 
Koader?  Because  if  this  is  a  joke  it  is  one  I  don't  mean 
to  stand!" 

"I'm  not  joking,  I  assure  you!"  she  answered,  coldly. 
"Klaoda  may  be  a  drunkard,  but  he's  not  the  man  to 
show  disrespect  to  a  kinswoman,  and  he  loves  Faik  far 
too  dearly  to  refuse  her  anything  she  asks." 

1  Cousin. 
245 


GRAY    MIST 

"He  does!  does  he!"  Pierrek  muttered  through  his 
teeth.  "Well,  that  being  so,  I  absolutely  refuse  to  have 
anything  more  to  do  with  your  cursed  peaceful  projects, 
and,"  he  concluded,  with  alarming  violence,  "you  can 
take  it  from  me  that  I  will  go  out  of  my  way  to  meet  him 
as  soon  as  possible,  and  break  his  worthless  neck  when  I 
do!" 

For  the  first  time  during  this  unpleasant  interview 
Madame  Koader  let  her  inward  agitation  get  the  better 
of  her.  "You  won't  do  that,  Pierrek!"  she  cried,  leap 
ing  to  her  feet  and  catching  him  by  the  arm;  "for  pity's 
sake  don't  risk  your  life  any  more  than  you  have  done!" 
The  deep  anguish  in  her  voice  would  have  struck  him 
had  he  been  cooler,  but  he  was  past  noticing  such  trifles, 
and  brushing  her  hand  from  his  rough  woollen  sleeve  as 
if  it  had  been  a  fly,  he  exclaimed: 

"Risk  my  life!  .  .  .  What  the  hell  do  I  care  about  that! 
I'm  not  much  of  a  boaster,  but  I  tell  you  to-night  that 
before  a  week  is  over  our  heads,  either  Klaoda  Karadek 
or  I  will  have  left  this  part  of  the  world  for  good  and  all. 
Now  are  you  satisfied,  Madame  Le  Hurec?  And  now 
good-night!  You  can  stay  here,  or  go  back  to  Enez- 
Pers  and  warn  your  cousin  of  my  intentions,  but  if  you 
value  your  husband's  neck,  don't  mention  a  word  of  all 
this  to  Faik,  because  as  sure  as  you  let  her  find  out  about 
it  I'll  include  Brigadier  Le  Hurec  in  the  feud,  and  turn 
my  attention  to  him  immediately  after  I  get  through 
with  Klaoda!"  And  without  another  look  he  turned  on 
his  heel,  and,  banging  the  gate  behind  him,  strode  down 
the  path,  leaving  the  utterly  dismayed  woman  alone  in 
the  garden,  possessed  by  a  sudden  and  extremely  un 
dignified  desire  to  scream. 

For  a  moment  she  listened  to  his  retreating  footsteps 
with  compressed  lips  and  heaving  shoulders,  the  bit- 

246 


GRAY    MIST 

terest  drop  in  her  cup  of  misery  being  that  she  had 
brought  this  scene  deliberately  upon  herself.  How  could 
she  have  guessed,  however,  that  the  Klaoda  project  had 
never  been  mentioned  to  Pierrek  ?  The  Recteur  had  told 
her  in  the  course  of  one  of  their  conversations  that  Faik 
absolutely  refused  to  see  her  quondam  suitor,  and  this 
had  been  her  chief  reason  for  trying  to  make  Pierrek  urge 
her  to  do  so — the  cleverest  sometimes  make  such  mis 
takes!  Nor  had  she  ever  supposed  the  young  husband 
to  be  so  bitterly  jealous — which  made  mistake  number 
two;  but  then  she  had  always  seen  him  so  calm  and  un 
emotional  and  self-possessed,  that  there  perhaps  she 
might  find  some  excuse  for  herself. 

There  was  a  sudden  horror  in  Madame  Koader's  eyes 
as  she  gazed  vacantly  at  the  extraordinary  moon-glade 
shredding  the  billowy  layers  of  mist  as  jagged  scissor-cuts 
might  do  with  the  folds  of  a  white  gauze  stretched  upon 
cloth  of  silver.  For  the  second  time  that  day  she  was  at 
a  loss  what  to  do.  Her  brain  whirled  painfully  in  her 
head,  pivoting  around  one  central  thought:  to  reconquer 
the  ground  she  had  just  lost  at  any  cost,  any  price;  but 
her  whole  being  was  absolutely  paralyzed  by  the,  to  her, 
novel  feeling  that  this  was  something  even  she  could  not 
accomplish.  And  yet  she  loved  Pierrek  with  that  love 
which  comes  once  only  in  a  lifetime!  Her  white  teeth 
closed  on  her  lower  lip  with  cruel  force,  and  she  stood 
there  as  motionless  as  the  gate-post  at  her  side,  but  her 
breath  coming  and  going  with  a  sound  that  was  almost  a 
sob. 

"He  must  not  find  me  here  when  he  comes  back,"  she 
thought  all  at  once,  and  noiselessly,  on  tiptoe,  controlling 
her  emotion  as  best  she  could,  she  glided  behind  the 
hedge  of  currant-bushes  that  being  now  very  thick  and 
tall  almost  concealed  her;  skirted  the  house,  and  entered 

247 


GRAY    MIST 

her  own  room  without,  as  she  imagined,  being  seen  by 
Faik  from  the  house. 

She  spent  the  next  few  hours  walking  up  and  down 
like  some  caged  wild  animal,  but  treading  softly  on  the 
bare  boards  with  stockinged  feet,  and  in  almost  total 
darkness,  except  for  the  faint  moon  reflection  filtering 
through  the  creepers  garlanding  her  window.  She  had 
been  hoist  by  her  own  petard,  and  her  humiliation  at  so 
great  a  piece  of  clumsiness  rankled  deeply;  and  added  to 
all  her  other  present  humiliations,  fear,  such  as  she  had 
never  known,  pierced  her  very  soul.  What  if  Pierrek 
had  put  his  threat  into  immediate  execution?  What  if 
he  was  even  now  sailing  towards  Enez-Pers  and — Klaoda  ? 

She  crept  out  again,  pausing  between  every  step, 
avoiding  every  pebble  of  the  little,  circular  path  round 
the  house  that  might  have  rolled  under  foot,  and  crouch 
ed  beneath  Faik's  window.  The  shutters  were  drawn 
almost  to,  and  she  saw  no  light  within,  nor  did  she  hear 
any  sound,  be  it  ever  so  faint.  Had  Pierrek  returned? 
It  was  quite  possible  for  him  to  have  done  so  without 
her  becoming  aware  of  it,  for  those  granite  houses  of 
Brittany  are  peculiarly  "deaf."  What  if  she  simulated 
sudden  illness,  and  called  her  cousin?  Yet  no,  she 
could  not  face  Faik  just  now,  and  with  the  same  ex 
asperating  precautions  she  slowly  regained  her  room. 

Pierrek  had  returned  after  giving  himself  an  hour's 
rapid  walk  on  the  shingle  to  calm  his  rage — a  proceeding 
that  even  to  the  strongest  is  something  of  a  trial,  for  a 
shingle  beach  is  no  very  agreeable  promenade — and  let 
ting  himself  in  noiselessly — everybody  seemed  afraid  to 
break  the  silence  that  night — had  rejoined  Faik. 

Perfectly  trustful  that  her  husband's  methods  would 
rid  her  of  Koader,  she  had  stretched  herself  on  the  bed 
without  undressing,  holding  little  Tamek  in  the  hollow  of 

248 


GRAY    MIST 

her  arm,  and,  tired  out  by  a  long  day's  work,  in  a  few 
minutes  she  was  fast  asleep,  curled  up  like  a  child  in  her 
cosey  nest.  The  delicately  carved  shutters  of  the  lit-clos 
were  thrown  wide,  and  for  a  few  minutes  Pierrek  stood 
looking  at  the  pretty  picture  within  by  the  light  of  the 
tallow  dip  burning  on  a  near-by  table.  Faik's  cheeks, 
flushed  by  the  deep  sleep  of  early  youth,  were  of  the 
color  of  pink  hawthorn,  her  long  lashes  rested  upon 
them  like  a  velvet  fringe,  and  she  looked  the  incarnation 
of  life's  innocent,  happy  spring-time.  At  last,  very  gen 
tly,  Pierrek  awakened  her. 

"Oh!"  she  said,  plaintively,  "is  it  already  morning?" 

"No,  no!"  he  replied,  in  that  hushed  voice  in  which  it 
seems  natural  to  speak  to  awakening  children,  "I  have 
only  just  come  in.  Get  undressed,  and  you  can  con 
tinue  your  nap." 

"Have  you  told  Koader?"  she  murmured,  drowsily,  sit 
ting  up  with  her  baby  still  in  her  arms,  and  preparing  to 
stand  upon  the  banc-de-lit  *  by  gradually  sliding  her  little 
feet  over  the  high  edge  of  the  piled-up  mattresses. 

"Yes.  Don't  worry,  and  give  me  the  bugel?  You'll 
let  him  drop  in  a  minute." 

She  gave  a  clear,  low  laugh,  as  fresh  and  merry  as  a 
summer  dawn,  and  complying  with  his  request,  stood 
swaying  sleepily,  watching  him  tuck  the  slumbering 
Tamek  in  his  cradle  before  blowing  out  the  candle. 
Bretons  always  undress  in  the  dark  when  not  alone,  for 
familiarity  brings  no  contempt  with  it  in  this  benighted 
portion  of  the  world. 

Pierrek  was  very  tired,  and  when  he  finally  got  to  bed, 
for  a  few  hours  he  slept  profoundly.  In  the  ordinary 
way  he  would  have  slept  on  till  sunrise,  but  strangely 

1  Broad  bench  or  step  by  the  side  of  the  cupboard-bed. 

2  Nursling. 

249 


GRAY    MIST 

enough  just  before  dawn  he  found  himself  wide  awake 
again.  The  first  fatigue  of  the  body  was  past,  and  the 
busy  mind  asserted  itself.  He  had  been  worried  more 
than  he  would  have  cared  to  own  by  his  stormy  discus 
sion  with  Koader,  and  the  moment  he  was  half  awake  his 
thoughts  leaped  into  that  unpleasant  channel  and  roused 
him  completely. 

The  silence  was  almost  startling  in  its  dead  depth,  that 
was  only  intensified  by  the  low  voice  of  the  full,  quiet 
tide  lapping  the  foot  of  the  cliffs,  and  it  was  quite  dark 
in  the  room,  for  the  moon,  who  at  the  time  of  his  return 
home  had  been  playing  hide-and-seek  with  the  stars  amid 
a  curious  rimelike  formation  of  snow-white  fern-shaped 
cloudlets,  had  now  veiled  herself  a  la  Bretonne  prepara 
tory  to  retiring  to  her  soft  bed  of  downy  vapors,  and 
Pierrek  dropped  his  head  again  on  the  pillow. 

He  did  not  fall  asleep,  however,  and  suddenly  the  ever- 
watchful  Gouillas,  from  his  perch  beneath  the  wide  stone- 
mantel  of  the  hearth,  said  cavernously,  in  dull  muffled 
tones:  "Liber a  nos  a  malo  !" 

Pierrek  cursed  softly  through  his  teeth.  That  wise 
bird's  Latin  orations  were  at  times  too  much  for  him  in 
their  singular  a  propos.  Involuntarily  he  began  to  listen 
almost  nervously  for  the  faint  rustling  of  feathers  in  the 
corner,  expecting  to  be  annoyed  by  some  further  cita 
tion,  and  in  a  few  moments  Gouillas  fulfilled  this  antici 
pation  by  beginning  to  chuckle  derisively  to  himself. 

"Shh  .  .  .  shh!"  Pierrek  whispered,  afraid  to  wake  up 
Faik  and  the  children,  and  yet  filled  with  a  curious  de 
sire  to  silence  the  loquacious  bird;  but  this  doubtless 
seemed  to  the  latter  something  of  an  impertinence,  for 
after  some  premonitory  clappings  of  his  beak,  he  hoarsely 
gabbled  a  "Go  out  to  meet  the  devil,  the  devil,  the 
devil!"  that  sent  a  thrill  down  Pierrek's  spine. 

250 


GRAY    MIST 

In  an  instant  he  was  out  of  bed  and  at  the  half-shut 
tered  window,  as  though  in  search  of  that  Evil  One  whose 
fateful  presence  would  somehow  have  been  perfectly  in 
keeping  with  his  present  mood.  All  was  silent  outside — 
and  to  all  appearances  peaceful.  The  mist  gleamed 
white  beneath  the  shrouded  pallor  of  the  moon,  but 
away  off  above  the  gates  of  dawn  a  sharp  double-line  of 
crude  lemon-yellow  brutally  cut  the  vapors  along  the 
horizon.  After  a  while,  however,  Pierrek,  listening  in 
tently  for  he  knew  not  what,  thought  that  he  heard  a 
singular  sound,  regular  as  the  monotonous  ticking  of  a 
clock,  but  soft  and  furtive.  Could  it  be  footsteps  within 
the  house?  Quickly  and  noiselessly  he  dressed  himself, 
and  snatching  up  his  beret  went  cautiously  to  the  door. 

Bolts  and  locks  are  not  considered  a  necessity  of  life  in 
Brittany,  and  he  therefore  let  himself  out,  as  he  thought, 
unheard  by  all  the  inmates  of  his  sleeping  home,  and  yet 
hardly  had  he  taken  two  steps  around  the  corner  of  the 
house  than  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  Koader, 
calm  and  dignified  of  attitude  as  ever,  but  pale  to  the 
lips  with  a  paleness  that  seemed  almost  corpselike  in  the 
gray  twilight  of  early  dawn. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  asked,  quietly,  every 
nerve  now  as  steady  as  steel,  for  he  felt  in  some  unac 
countable  way  that  he  was  touching  the  very  core  of  a 
situation  that  had  worried  him  subliminally  since  many 
days. 

She  did  not  answer  at  once.  She  was  standing  within 
a  foot  of  him,  and  her  dark  eyes,  abnormally  enlarged  by 
some  strong  emotion,  looked  unwinkingly  into  his. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  she  asked,  at  length,  answer 
ing  woman-like  by  another  question. 

"What  is  that  to  you?"  he  said,  coldly. 

A  sudden  wave  of  terror  swept  over  the  frozen  features 
17  251 


GRAY    MIST 

of  the  strange  woman,  and  she  murmured,  hoarsely:  "I 
knew  it ;  I  knew  it ;  you  are  bent  upon  going  to  get  your 
self  killed  by  those  savages  of  Enez-Pers — Oh!  Pierrek! 
Pierrek!" 

"Now,  look  here,  Koader!"  he  said,  in  his  most  master 
ful  way,  "this  sort  of  thing  won't  do.  I'm  not  overfond 
of  being  watched  and  spied  upon  like  this.  Come  away 
from  the  house;  we  don't  want  to  wake  up  Faik,  and  tell 
me  once  and  for  all  what  your  behavior  means!" 

Obediently  she  followed  him  across  the  back  garden, 
where  the  first  faint  glow  of  the  awakening  day  was  be 
ginning  to  tinge  the  petals  of  Faik's  favorite  white 
petunias  with  almost  invisible  rose,  and  at  a  gesture 
from  him  sat  down  upon  the  wooden  bench  behind  the 
box  hedge.  It  was  going  to  be  warm  again,  and  from 
the  pine-trees  in  the  valley  of  Kermario  a  strong  and 
subtle  scent,  such  as  they  only  emit  in  spring,  was  rising. 
The  furze-clad  slopes  near  by  added  their  discreet  con 
tribution  to  this  exquisite  fragrance,  and  not  far  away 
the  border  of  white  violets  shook  out  in  their  early  morn 
ing  shiver  upon  the  freshness  of  the  transparent  atmos 
phere  the  breath  of  their  hundred  little  perfumed  throats. 

Madame  Koader  stirred  uneasily,  and  looked  up  into 
Pierrek's  face.  Her  eyes  growing  accustomed  to  the 
misleading  light  of  that  green-shadowed  nook,  could  dis 
cern  every  change  in  his  expression,  and  what  she  saw 
was  not  encouraging. 

"I  do  not  wish  to  quarrel  with  you,  Koader,"  he  said, 
after  an  almost  imperceptible  pause,  "but  we  had  better 
come  to  an  understanding!"  He  stopped  to  give  her 
time  to  explain  herself,  but  still  she  remained  mute,  her 
eyes  now  cast  down  and  intent  upon  a  little  branch  of 
box  that  she  had  mechanically  broken  off  from  the  tall 
bush  beside  her,  and  was  slowly  pulling  to  pieces. 

252 


GRAY    MIST 

"You  are,  to  tell  you  the  plain  truth,  a  great  deal  too 
mysterious  in  your  doings  .  .  .  not  frank  enough  by  half, 
and  I  don't  like  it!" 

With  a  quick  tension  of  every  nerve  and  muscle  she  in 
terrupted  him.  "You  want  me  to  be  frank  .  .  .  abso 
lutely  frank?"  she  asked,  a  little  breathlessly,  and  fixing 
upon  him  eyes  that  had  lost  every  vestige  of  their  cus 
tomary  want  of  lustre,  and  were  shining  like  the  rich 
heart  of  a  very  deep-hued  garnet. 

"Yes — certainly  I  do.  All  these  dark  doings  and  say 
ings  of  yours  are  annoying.  Can't  you  speak  for  once 
like  somebody  who  has  nothing  to  fear  or  conceal?" 

In  a  flash  she  was  on  her  feet,  confronting  him,  one 
trembling  hand  at  the  chain  of  her  marriage  cross,  as 
though  the  heavy  golden  strands  were  choking  her.  She 
was  wondering  vaguely  in  this  last  second  of  reason 
whether  he  would  kill  her  when  she  told  him,  but  speak 
she  must:  nothing  on  earth  could  stop  her  now. 

Pierrek,  astonished  at  her  expression,  was  gazing  at 
her.  He  was  not  a  subtle  man  at  all,  and,  alas!  was 
Breton  and  old-fashioned  enough  to  look  upon  women 
as  something  essentially  above  and  essentially  purer  than 
men.  His  mother  and  Faik  were  like  that,  and  all  the 
others  he  had  hitherto  met  during  his  clear  young  life. 
Therefore,  he  was  even  yet,  stupid  as  it  may  seem,  a  thou 
sand  leagues  away  from  realizing  that  this  one  was  differ 
ent,  spoiled  by  over-education  and  the  foul  air  of  a  city. 
Silently  he  waited,  standing  before  her  in  his  great  calm 
strength  and  marvellous  youth;  tall,  handsome,  indiffer 
ent,  a  man  in  a  thousand,  and  a  fit  one  to  love. 

She  leaned  forward,  with  down-drawn  brows  and  sud 
denly  fiery  cheeks,  peering  into  his  ever  slightly  con 
temptuous  face. 

"I  love  you!"  she  said,  brutally. 

253 


GRAY    MIST 

Pierrek's  eyes  opened  to  their  widest,  and,  looking 
straight  at  her,  he  spat  upon  the  ground.  On  his  young 
face  there  was  an  expression  of  disgust  so  absolute  that 
words  were  not  needed,  and  Koader,  with  an  exclama 
tion  of  intense  pain,  stepped  back,  still  gazing  at  him 
like  one  hypnotized,  but  with  a  strange  new  expression 
that  was  neither  fury  nor  abasement  convulsing  her 
whole  countenance. 

Through  all  her  shame,  her  anger,  her  agony,  an  un 
dercurrent  of  irrelevant  thought  was  racing,  beating 
madly  against  some  dim  barrier  of  the  brain.  "Where 
have  I  seen  this  face  of  anger  and  contempt  before  .  .  . 
where  .  .  .  where  ?"  and  all  at  once  she  shrieked,  "The  cross! 
the  cross!  .  .  .  Bihan-Gwenneal  .  .  .  Bihan-Gwenne'al!"1 

Ah!  Now  she  knew  .  .  .  that  trick  of  the  dark  eye 
brows  had  burst  the  restraining  wall,  and  like  a  freed 
torrent  all  the  discoveries  of  the  last  twenty-four  hours 
flooded  down  the  slope  of  her  mind!  This  Pierrek 
Rouzik — never!  but  Gwenndal  Kara"dek,  the  little  cousin 
she  herself  had  forgotten  in  the  kinau,  and  left  to  drift 
away  and  be  drowned  twenty  -  two  years  before.  .  .  . 
Pierrek  Rouzik!  .  .  .  Oh!  what  had  Mari-Gwezek  said  .  .  . 
what  had  Lanaik  meant,  then  .  .  .  ? 

In  the  stunning  suddenness  of  the  discovery  the  full 
horror  of  the  thing  did  not  penetrate  to  her  rocking 
senses:  the  blow  had  been  too  swift  for  that;  but  while 
he  was  turning  away,  thinking  her  completely  unhinged 
and  best  left  alone  until  he  could  summon  more  coolness 
to  his  aid  in  dealing  with  the  question  of  her  instant  de 
parture,  she  saw — and  with  one  wild  clutch  at  his  shoul 
der  she  cried,  in  a  voL-e  no  longer  like  her  own  but  cracked 
and  hoarsened  as  that  of  an  old  woman: 

1  Petit  Ange — little  angel. 
254 


GRAY    MIST 

"You  can't  go  back  there" — one  shaking  hand  pointed 
towards  the  house — "not  to  Faik — not  to  Faik!" 

"What  the  red-helled  malediction  do  you  mean?"  he 
asked,  turning  fiercely  upon  her,  and  shaking  off  her 
hand  as  if  it  had  been  something  too  loathsome  to  en 
dure.  "Don't  you  dare  to  utter  my  wife's  name!" 

Koader  looked  at  him,  and  then  burst  into  low,  gur 
gling  laughter  —  the  most  blood-curdling  and  mirthless 
sound  he  had  ever  heard.  "Not  utter  Faik's  name!" 
she  shrieked,  at  last,  as  a  mad  woman  might  have  done 
in  the  extremity  of  a  paroxysm.  "Your  wife's  name  .  . .  ! 
She's  not  your  wife  .  .  .  she's  your  .  .  .  your  sister!" 
Then  she  collapsed  upon  the  bench  with  a  dropping  lip, 
gulping  down  something  in  her  throat,  something  that 
would  not  be  swallowed. 

Pierrek  bending  forward  saw  the  chattering  jaw,  the 
wild  eyes  looking  up  at  him  in  that  terrible  red  way,  and 
shuddered. 

"Mad!"  he  muttered,  "mad!"  But  his  own  face  was 
growing  pale,  and  he,  too,  was  breathing  heavily. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

Drifteth  the  mist;  the  coiling  veil, 
Down-dropt  in  many  a  cobweb  trail, 
Unrolleth,  lengtheneth  filmily 
And  soft — oh,  velvet  soft,  till  ye 
Are  lost  in  grayness,  blank  and  pale. 

And  in  one  level-balanced  scale 

Hang  strength  and  weakness,  oar  and  sail. 

Ah,  to  such  dread  equality 

Drifteth  the  mist! 

Then  what  is  left  when  all  things  fail  ? 
A  courage  clad  in  linked  mail, 

A  pride  unmaimed,  that  manfully 

Ye  may  go  down  into  the  sea, 
When  on  the  wreck  of  storm  and  gale 
Drifteth  the  mist! 

M.  M. 

THE  Recteur  of  Kermarioker  was  comfortably  sleeping 
in  his  white-draped  four-poster.  His  trip  to  town  had 
tired  him  much,  for,  iron-muscled  though  he  was,  and 
well  used  to  every  sort  of  bodily  fatigue,  yet  the  noise 
and  comparative  hurry  and  bustle  of  even  a  Breton  chef- 
lieu — and  Heaven  only  knows  that  at  its  highest  cul 
minating  point  this  would  seem  stagnation  to  any  other 
city  in  Europe — "broke  his  head,"  as  he  expressed  it. 
He  had  been  overjoyed  to  return  to  his  flower-bowered 
presbytery,  his  cheerful  fireside  and  roomy  slippers,  and 
after  a  light  meal  had  almost  at  once  retired.  At  present 
he  was  dreaming  that  the  old  patache  in  which  he  had 

256 


GRAY    MIST 

travelled  was  once  more  rumbling  over  the  pointed  pav 
ing-stones  of  the  narrow  streets  with  a  noise  which  at 
first  he  hardly  heeded.  Soon,  however,  it  increased  to 
such  an  extent  and  became  so  persistent  that  he  lazily 
unclosed  his  eyes  .  .  .  not  in  order  to  discover  the  origin 
of  the  sound,  since  his  sleeping  mind  rested  assured  that 
it  was  due  to  the  wheels  of  the  clumsy  conveyance,  but 
just  because  eye  and  ear  had  acted  in  unison  for  so  long 
that  they  did  so  now  without  any  volition  on  his  part. 

The  noise  grew  louder  still,  and  for  the  second  time  the 
Recteur's  eyes  opened — uncomprehendingly  at  first,  and 
then  suddenly  filled  with  alarm,  for  somebody  was  beat 
ing  a  truly  infernal  tattoo  upon  his  window  -  shutters. 
There  was  something  familiar,  too,  in  the  energy  of  the 
action,  and  almost  immediately  he  called  out:  "Is  that 
you,  Pierrek?" 

"Yes!"  came  the  answer  from  the  outside,  and  there 
was  something  in  the  voice  that  made  M.  Kornog  jump 
from  his  bed  and  hurry  into  his  clothes  as  if  the  house 
were  on  fire.  Indeed,  not  two  minutes  did  it  take 
him  to  make  himself  semi-presentable  and  run  to  the 
front  door,  which  he  threw  open,  letting  in  at  one  and 
the  same  time  the  shimmering  rosy  rays  of  a  splendid 
dawn,  and  Pierrek,  barely  recognizable  in  his  white 
wrath  of  fury,  dragging  by  the  shoulder  a  staggering 
haggard-faced  woman  who  seemed  scarcely  able  to  stand 
on  her  feet. 

"Holy  Saints  of  Heaven!"  the  priest  cried,  stepping 
back  in  consternation  at  sight  of  the  once  stately  Madame 
Koader.  Mechanically,  scarcely  conscious  of  what  he 
was  doing,  he  pushed  the  strange  pair  into  his  study, 
and,  hardly  daring  to  question  them,  stood  for  a  mo 
ment  gazing  helplessly  from  one  to  the  other.  Strong, 
hardened,  weather-beaten  man  that  he  was,  his  nerves 

257 


GRAY    MIST 

were  all  a-tingle,  his  flesh  creeping  with  dread.  With  a 
groan  Koader  cast  herself  upon  a  chair,  and  covering  her 
face  with  her  hands,  began  to  rock  to  and  fro  in  a  voice 
less  agony  that  the  last  half -hour  might  have  caused  in  a 
woman  ten  times  as  vigorous  as  herself,  while  Pierrek, 
his  shoulders  against  the  door,  which  he  had  closed  with 
a  backward  kick,  stood  gulping  down  some  nameless 
nauseating  horror  before  trusting  himself  to  speak. 

Then  at  last  the  Cure  spoke:  "For  God's  sake,  Pierrek, 
what  is  it?" 

Pierrek  raised  his  arm  sharply,  and  brought  it  down 
with  its  full  weight  upon  the  woman's  heaving  shoulder. 
"Ask  her!"  he  said,  through  his  clinched  teeth.  Visibly 
he  could  say  no  more,  although,  as  the  silence  of  the 
room  remained  unbroken,  he  twice  attempted  to  do  so. 
His  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  came  from  them,  and  to 
make  her  speak  at  least  he  began  to  shake  her  like  a  gar 
ment.  M.  Kornog,  who  had  been  unconsciously  holding 
tight  to  the  back  of  a  chair  with  both  hands,  rushed 
forward. 

"Let  go  of  her!"  he  cried.  "Pierrek,  what  are  you 
doing?  You — and  brutalizing  a  woman!" 

"She's  not  a  woman,  she's  a  hell-fiend,  do  you  hear, 
Monsieur  le  Recteur!"  he  at  last  burst  forth.  "That  a 
woman — oh!  holy  Virgin-Mother,  no  woman,  be  she  ever 
so  vile,  would  have  done  what  she  has  done  to-night!" 
He  gasped  like  a  drowning  man,  clutching  vainly  about 
him  for  something  to  cling  to,  and  continued  hacking  his 
words  as  if  each  separate  one  blistered  his  tongue.  "She 
told  me  that  I  am  not  my  father's  son  .  .  .  nor  my  moth 
er's  either,"  he  added,  with  a  bitter  crack  of  laughter, 
"and  what  more  do  you  think  she  says?" 

The  priest's  face  went  white,  then  crimson,  and  mur 
muring  below  his  breath,  "The  day  of  reckoning  for  me!" 

258 


GRAY    MIST 

he  stood  immovable,  vaguely  wondering  what  next 
would  come. 

"She  says — "  Pierrek  resumed  and  stopped,  his  lips 
working  convulsively,  and  in  the  eyes  he  turned  upon 
Koader  a  flame  of  murderous  hatred  and  deadly  rage, 
"she  says  that  .  .  .oh!  Christ,  how  can  I  tell  it  ...  she 
says  that  F  ..."  his  tongue  stumbled  over  that  beloved 
name,  "that  F  .  .  .  Faik  is  ...  my  sister!" 

The  priest  moved  back  feebly  to  the  table,  and  sank 
down  half -sitting  on  it.  His  strong  face  was  suddenly 
vacant,  and  his  teeth  chattered  a  little.  This  silence, 
this  shuddering  stupor,  unnerved  Pierrek  more  than 
any  errified  exclamation  might  have  done,  since,  over 
whelmed  as  he  had  been  by  Koader's  absolute  certainty, 
this  brought  blindingly  before  him  for  the  first  time  the 
possibility  of  the  horror  being  true.  He  glanced  slowly 
round  the  dim  room,  with,  in  those  deep-set  gray  eyes  of 
his,  the  dawning  of  an  immeasurable  despair. 

"Tell  me  that  it  is  impossible — that  it  cannot  be!"  he 
whispered  unsteadily,  trying  to  read  the  Cure's  face. 

"I  don't  .  .  .  know!"  the  wretched  man  answered,  his 
expression  one  of  shuddering  bewilderment. 

"But  you  must  know — you  must!"  Pierrek's  voice 
rose  to  a  cry.  "You  are  the  one  to  know.  You  were 
my  father's  and  mother's  friend" — again  he  gave  that 
terrible  laugh — "my  father  and  mother  .  .  .  those  I  have 
called  so  anyhow  .  .  .  you  knew  me  always!  Am  I  their 
son  .  .  .  Hoarve  and  Lanaik  Rouzik's  son,  I  mean — yes 
or  no?" 

"No,"  the  priest  muttered,  very  low. 

Pierrek  heard,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  fall 
ing,  falling,  and  still  falling,  through  immeasurable 
depths  of  blinding  darkness.  His  teeth  went  down  upon 
his  underlip,  and  a  curious  feeling  of  physical  sickness 

259 


GRAY    MIST 

came  upon  him.  Harder  and  harder  he  set  his  teeth, 
and  the  taste  of  his  own  blood  felt  salty  in  his  mouth, 
though  he  did  not  know  that  he  was  biting  his  lip  through. 
Great  spots  of  silver  were  leaping  and  forming  into  in 
tricate  rings  before  his  eyes,  and  then  it  seemed  to  him 
that  Faik's  face  was  gazing  at  him  through  these  devilish 
arabesques — full  of  a  reproach  intense  and  supplicating. 

"And  I  thought  that  I  alone  would  expiate!"  the 
priest  was  dully  thinking,  "I  alone!"  He  was  utterly 
confused  and  too  deeply  horrified  to  move,  but  after 
what  seemed  a  period  of  incalculable  length  he  began  to 
feel  the  strangling  stupor  that  held  him  mute  relax,  and 
rising  to  his  feet  he  crossed  over  to  Koader,  still  rocking 
herself  to  and  fro  after  the  manner  of  one  bereft  of  reason. 

"What  makes  you  think  this  thing?"  he  said,  speak 
ing  suddenly  in  a  very  distinct  voice,  as  if  afraid  that  she 
would  not  understand.  "What  makes  you  think  it?" 

Koader  looked  up  for  the  first  time,  and  M.  Kor- 
nog  recoiled  before  the  expression  that  swept  across  her 
face.  The  veil  of  unreality  was  being  torn  asunder  be 
fore  his  eyes,  revealing  the  hideous  naked  truth,  for  to 
him,  the  reader  of  human  nature,  this  woman's  eyes 
were  not  those  of  a  liar.  For  an  instant  they  stared  at 
each  other,  and  then  Koader  began  to  speak:  at  first  in 
a  mechanical,  toneless  voice,  then  more  rapidly,  with  a 
hard  certainty  of  accent  that  none  who  heard  could 
doubt.  Her  two  hearers  listened  without  a  word  of  pro 
test  or  interruption,  Pierrek  with  the  back  of  his  hand 
pressed  against  his  bleeding  lip,  M.  Kornog  now  and 
again  passing  a  finger  across  his  forehead,  from  which 
drops  of  perspiration  dripped  slowly. 

"And,"  concluded  the  monotonous  voice  at  last,  "I 
knew  him" — she  inclined  her  head  towards  Pierrek — 
"this  morning  by  his  frown  .  .  .  knew  him  without  the 

260 


GRAY    MIST 

possibility  of  a  mistake  .  .  .  how  I  did  not  do  so  before  I 
cannot  explain  .  .  .  perhaps  my  love  for  the  man  effaced 
the  remembrance  of  the  child."  She  was  avowing  this 
shameful  passion  unhesitatingly  now  before  the  priest, 
who  had  heard  so  many  confessions  of  human  weakness, 
and  the  man  who  had  inspired  it.  "Two  or  three  times 
I  had  thought  that  he  reminded  me  of  some  one,  but  the 
resemblance  always  eluded  me  .  .  .  and  I  did  not  dwell 
much  on  it!" 

"But  you  may  be  mistaken!"  M.  Kornog  cried,  sud 
denly,  clinging  against  reason  and  conviction  to  a  last 
desperate  hope.  "How  can  you  be  certain?  Think 
well  ...  a  baby  of  two  years  .  .  .  and  a  grown  man.  .  .  . 
It  is  so  long  ago!" 

Koader  smiled,  and  it  was  ghastly,  this  contraction  of 
the  pale  lips  in  that  haggard  face.  "There  is  one  more 
proof  you  can  find,"  she  said,  slowly.  "When  he  was 
but  one  year  old  I  let  a  pan  of  boiling  water  fall  on  his 
foot — the  left  one — oh!  I  have  brought  him  nothing  but 
bad  luck!  There  must  be  a  scar,  for  the  scald  was  deep." 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  miserable  seconds,  and 
then,  very  deliberately,  Pierrek  drew  forward  a  chair 
and  sat  down.  The  priest  and  Koader  bending  forward 
at  one  and  the  same  time  were  watching  him,  and  surely 
one  could  hear  the  beating  of  their  two  hearts.  The 
light  canvas  shoe  fell  on  the  floor,  and  was  followed  by 
the  dark-blue  woollen  sock  knitted  by  Faik.  The  foot, 
neat  and  well  shaped,  as  is  only  the  case  with  people  who 
never  hamper  or  cramp  it,  was  sunburned,  for  Breton 
fishermen  go  mostly  barefooted,  and  a  little  below  the  in 
step  a  faint  cicatrice,  formed  like  a  three-pointed  star, 
showed  whitely. 

They  sat  quite  still,  all  three  of  them,  in  utter  silence, 
looking  at  the  tiny  white  mark  that  meant  so  terrible  a 

261 


GRAY    MIST 

certitude.  For  two  of  them  at  least  no  time  was  needed 
for  the  analysis  of  their  sensations:  they  knew  that  all 
the  world  was  changed  for  them. 

"What  year,  what  day  of  the  month  was  it,  that — 
that  your  little  cousin  disappeared?"  M.  Kornog  said, 
after  a  moment,  turning  to  Madame  Koader,  and  her 
answer  made  him  wince.  "The  fourteenth  of  August — 
the  fourteenth!"  he  said,  hesitatingly,  searching  his  brain 
for  some  discrepancy  —  some  thin  loop  -  hole  of  escape. 
Then  rushing  across  the  room  he  opened  the  door  and 
shouted  in  a  voice  that  shook  the  very  window-frames: 

"Mari-Gwezek — quick,  Mari-Gwezek  .  .  .  come  here!" 

In  a  moment  another  door  overhead  was  flung  wide, 
and  an  angry,  startled  voice  cried:  "Is  the  house  afire? 
What's  the  matter  with  you,  M.  Alanik?"  followed  by  the 
sound  of  shuffling  feet  descending  the  stairs. 

Mari-Gwezek  pinned  and  laced  in  her  decorous  Breton 
costume  was  still  a  very  pretty  little  old  woman,  but 
Mari-Gwezek  en  deshabille,  clad  in  a  scanty  black  under 
skirt  and  a  sleeping- jacket  of  flowered  calico,  her  bare 
feet  in  gaudy  slippers  a  couple  of  sizes  too  large,  and  a 
pink-checked  handkerchief  knotted  over  her  serre-tete,1 
would  at  another  time  have  been  something  to  smile  at. 

With  an  angry  light  in  her  vivid  blue  eyes  she  literally 
bounced  into  the  room;  but  at  sight  of  the  faces  about 
the  table  her  wrathful  countenance  underwent  a  start 
ling  transformation,  her  wrinkled  cheeks  lost  their  pretty, 
enduring  bloom,  and  her  voice  faltered  —  guiltily,  one 
would  almost  have  sworn — as  she  asked: 

"What  do  you  want,  Monsieur  le  Recteur?" 

Her  tone  was  unbelievably  meek,  and  evinced' no  as 
tonishment  whatsoever  at  finding  her  master,  his  soutane 

1  Little,  tight-fitting  muslin  skull-cap,  worn  by  Breton  peasant 
women  under  the  coiffe. 

262 


GRAY    MIST 

buttoned  all  awry,  his  feet  in  slippers  almost  as  ill-fitting 
as  her  own,  and  his  face  black  as  thunder,  entertaining 
two  guests  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Without  even 
looking  at  her,  M.  Kornog  said,  curtly: 

"What  day  of  the  month  was  it  that  Hoarve  Rouzik 
found  the  baby  he  brought  home  to  his  wife?" 

"I  knew  it!  I  knew  it!"  wailed  the  old  woman.  "Ah! 
it's  all  the  fault  of  my  cursed  tongue-wagging.  .  .  .  Why 
did  I  do  it,  Saints  above,  why  did  I  ?  .  .  .  Give  me  a  pen 
ance,  a  hard  one,  too,  M.  Alanik!  Tell  me  to  walk  to 
St.  Anne  de  la  Palude  with  dry  beans  in  my  shoes,  and 
I'll  do  it,  or  ...  !" 

"Have  you  gone  mad,  Mari-Gwezek?"  the  priest  inter 
rupted,  sternly.  "Who's  talking  of  you?  Gather  yourself 
together!  I'm  asking  you  whether  you  remember.  ..." 

But  Mari-Gwezek,  carried  completely  out  of  herself, 
had  turned  violently  upon  Madame  Koader. 

"I  thought  you  were  a  respectable  woman,  Madame  le 
Hurec,  and  here  you  go  making  all  that  trouble  for  me, 
taking  words  out  of  my  mouth  to  throw  at  innocent  peo 
ple's  heads  .  .  .  words,  too,  that  I  never  had  in  my  mouth 
at  all.  .  .  .  You  villain!  .  .  .  You  gossip  without  shame! 
You  took  the  very  thoughts  from  my  head,  and  flung 
them  at  that  poor  woman  like  the  snake  you  are.  But 
I'll  teach  you  ...  I'll  .  .  .  !" 

"Stop  that  foolishness!"  said  Pierrek,  seizing  her 
shoulder,  and  his  voice  choked  the  words  in  her  throat. 
"Say  quick  what  you  know  about  the  little  one  my 
father  found.  It's  a  matter  of  life  and  death  to  me  .  .  . 
and  a  few  others  besides!"  he  concluded,  grimly,  his 
white  face  now  set  like  flint,  his  swollen  underlip  adding 
a  fierceness  to  his  expression  that  it  did  not  need  to  ter 
rify  the  shrinking  old  woman. 

"Yes,  yes,  Pierrek,"  she  muttered,  hurriedly,  "I'll  tell 

263 


GRAY    MIST 

you,  my  little  Paotrik,1  all  you  want  to  know.  I  mind  it, 
alas!  too  well,  that  misty  day  when  poor  Hoarve  brought 
home  that  Mab-Ab-Koabr.2  Your  mother  was  turning 
'innocent'  with  grief  at  your  death —  She  stopped,  be 
wildered  by  her  own  tangled  story,  and  looked  helplessly 
around.  "I  don't  know.  The  devil  must  be  in  this!" 
and  she  crossed  herself  three  times  rapidly.  "Let  me 
explain,"  she  resumed,  clawing  at  her  silvery  bandeaux, 
dishevelled  now  and  hanging  in  disorder  over  her  wrinkled 
brow.  "You  see,  Paotrik,  your  father  loved  your 
mother  so,  that  when  you  died  of  the  fever.  ..."  She 
stamped  her  foot  in  impotent  fury.  "  Hano  Doue!"3  she 
cursed,  without  the  least  regard  for  her  master's  priestly 
ears — "Hano  Doue!  Am  I  going  to  get  through  with 
it?  No,  don't  try  and  help  me,  M.  Alanik,  don't  .  .  . 
you  will  only  make  it  worse;  let  me  tell  it  as  best  I  can! 
The  doctor  said  Lanaik  would  go  mad  .  .  .  she  was  al 
most  so  then,  and  Hoarve  found  the  Mab-Ab-Koabr  on 
the  sea  floating  about  like  a  Kollidik  -  Apouliek  and 
brought  it  home  to  her.  We  all  swore  we'd  never  tell 
her  .  .  .  you,  too,  Monsieur  le  Recteur,  like  the  rest,  and 
we  never  did,  and  she'll  go  mad  again  if  you  do  ... 
misery  on  us  all!  and  all  that  on  account  of  this  honey- 
tongued  stranger,  who's  married  to  a  dog  of  a  gwiraer* 
and  has  lost  all  right  to  talk  about  us  good  Bretons  for 
good  or  evil!" 

Pierrek  once  more  brought  his  hand  down  upon  her 
shoulder,  but  gently  this  time,  and  almost  coaxingly. 
There  was  a  faint  softening  of  pity  in  his  eyes  for  the 
poor  harassed  old  woman  and  a  softer  note  in  his  voice. 

"What  day  was  it,  Mari-Gwezek — what  day?" 

1  Boy.  2  Son  of  the  Cloud. 

3  Nom  de  Dieu  !  (Name  of  God.)  A  severely  reproved  blas 
phemy  in  Brittany.  4  Tax-gatherer. 

264 


GRAY    MIST 

"What  day?"  she  echoed.  "What  day?  ...  Oh!  yes. 
...  It  was  in  August,  I  know  that  .  .  .  because  of  the 
great  sardine  catch  that  year.  .  .  .  Oh!  now  I  can  tell 
you.  It  was  on  the  eve  of  the  Assumption  of  our  Blessed 
Lady  the  Holy  Virgin  Mary  .  .  .  !" 

"The  fourteenth  of  August.  God  have  mercy  on  us!" 
the  Cure  exclaimed,  turning,  if  possible,  a  shade  whiter. 
"Are  you  sure,  Mari-Gwezek,  quite,  quite  sure?" 

"Am  I  sure,  M.  Alanik?  .  .  .  am  I  sure  that  I'm 
alive  to  see  this  cursed  hour?  —  Yes,  yes,  sure,  and  so 
would  you  be  if  you'd  only  stop  to  think.  .  .  .  Old  Glao- 
Vraz  was  dying  that  day,  and  you  were  away  carrying 
the  Blessed  Extreme  Unction  to  him,  and  next  morn 
ing.  .  .  ." 

With  a  sigh,  bitterer  than  a  groan,  M.  Kornog  turned 
away.  The  case  was  proven  now  beyond  a  doubt 
— and  a  hush  filled  the  place,  like  some  tangible  and 
strangling  thing.  Never  had  that  quiet  room  of  the 
priest's  been  so  silent.  Koader  sat  motionless  as  she  had 
been  since  she  last  had  spoken,  gazing  in  a  sort  of  fixed 
fascination  at  Pierrek,  who  leaned  heavily  upon  the 
table;  Mari-Gwezek,  speechless  for  once,  glanced  wildly 
from  face  to  face. 

The  Cure  walked  to  the  window,  and  stood  staring  out 
unseeingly  at  the  magnificence  of  sunrise,  his  broad  back 
turned  uncompromisingly  upon  his  companions  in  mis 
ery.  Down  beneath  him,  somewhere  in  the  hill  -  side 
tangle  of  furze  and  bracken,  a  crackling  of  branches  was 
becoming  audible,  but  he  did  not  hear  it,  and  at  length 
he  turned  slowly  round  again.  In  his  deep  eyes  there 
was  the  hopeless  look  of  a  strong  man  cornered  by  an 
overwhelming  force. 

"And,"  he  said,  despairingly,  "I  had  taken  all  pre 
cautions,  made  every  inquiry.  .  .  .  But  who  would  have 

265 


GRAY    MIST 

thought  of  Bar-Avel  ...  a  village  miles  and  miles  awey! 
.  .  .  And  that's  our  fashion  here;  another  village  is  a 
strange  land  to  us!" 

"The  Ann-Dinaou  .  .  .  that  Ann-Dinaou  of  the  drowned, 
brought  him!"  wailed  Mari-Gwezek.  "The  Corpses'  High 
way!" 

Pierrek  looked  at  her;  he  had  grown  ten  years  older  in 
the  last  few  hours.  "Heaven  be  cursed  that  it  did  not 
keep  me!"  he  said. 

The  others  did  not  stir.  They  had  nothing  to  say,  and 
seemed  to  be  waiting  in  breathless  suspense  for  some 
thing  .  .  .  some  merciful  awakening  from  this  awful 
nightmare  .  .  .  and  just  then  this  new  period  of  tense 
silence  was  suddenly  broken  by  the  quick  patter  of 
swiftly  running  feet  below  the  garden  wall.  Brusquely 
the  priest  swung  round  towards  the  window,  and  re 
coiled  again  with  a  cry  of  absolute  horror. 

"Faik!"  he  said,  rushing  towards  the  door,  "Faik!" 


CHAPTER  XIX 

Why  should  it  not  avail  to  bless  or  curse? 

The  world  streams  forth  her  passions  on  the  air, 
May  we  not  draw  the  pure  waves  or  the  worse 

Down  in  one  flaming  moment,  that  shall  bear 

A  fearsome  blight,  or  else  a  foison  fair 
To  future  years?     Oh,  by  th'  unyielding  Will 

All  earthly  things  are  wrought:  who  then  may  dare 
Deny  it  power  in  one  o'erleaping  thrill 
Though  'twere  to  move  an  Alp,  to  be  accomplished  still. 

M.  M. 

THE  thing  had  happened  so  quickly  that  none  of  the 
others  had  even  time  to  change  their  respective  positions 
before  the  priest  disappeared,  closing  the  door  after  him. 
A  minute  perhaps  passed  thus;  then  Pierrek  slowly 
turned  towards  that  heavy  closed  door,  listening. 

The  breeze  was  whispering  gently  amid  the  leaves  out 
side,  and  the  whole  world  was  brightening  every  instant 
more  and  more,  for  the  warm  morning  air  was  dissolving 
the  last  delicate  webs  of  the  night's  mist.  On  her  knees 
in  a  corner  Mari-Gwezek  had  wrapped  herself  in  her 
orisons  like  a  chrysalis  in  its  cocoon.  She  did  not  know 
as  yet  the  full  horror  of  this  unparalleled  situation  .  .  . 
dreading  in  fact  for  the  immediate  future  Lanaik's  an 
guish  far  more  than  Faik's,  who,  after  all,  though  cer 
tainly  startled  when  the  truth  would  be  told  to  her, 
would,  as  she  thought,  still  be  Pierrek's  wife  whether 
he  were  a  Rouzik  or  somebody  else!  Pierrek  looked  at 
her  once  or  twice,  the  lowering  brow  and  angry  frown 

18  267 


GRAY    MIST 

recalling  to  him  in  that  strange  chaotic  fashion  that  fol 
lows  great  emotional  stress,  and  jostles  one's  thoughts 
past  and  present  into  a  bewildering  jumble,  a  day  when 
he  had  discovered  her  shaking  a  statue  of  St.  nerve" — a 
very  ancient  treasure  of  the  Cure's  that  occupied  a  bower 
in  the  garden  —  by  the  shoulders  with  the  utmost  vio 
lence.  He  had  rushed  to  the  rescue,  fearing  to  see  it 
totter  from  its  pedestal,  but  Mari-Gwezek  had  soon  sent 
him  about  his  business.  "Don't  you  come  interfering 
with  my  prayers,"  she  had  said,  naively.  "I'm  going 
to  show  this  stubborn  St.  Herve  what  he  gets  for  not 
listening  to  me!" 

Just  what  effect  would  her  wrestlings  with  heaven  have 
now  ?  he  wondered  dimly. 

And  Madame  Koader  .  .  .  what  of  her?  Buried  be 
neath  the  ruins  of  all  her  hopes;  bruised  and  battered  by 
the  ghastly  debris  that  she  had  wantonly  pulled  down 
upon  herself,  she  crouched  in  a  sort  of  stunned  apathy, 
almost  incapable  of  further  thought,  feeling  nothing,  ex 
cept  that  she  seemed  to  be  separated  now  from  every 
thing  worth  living  for  by  a  blank,  blind,  impassable  wall. 
Then  all  of  a  sudden  her  throat  muscles  contracted,  and 
for  a  hideous  second  she  did  not  know  whether  she  was 
going  to  laugh  or  cry,  and  falling  on  her  knees  be 
fore  M.  Kornog's  prayer  -  stool,  she  began  doing  both, 
in  a  smothered,  inarticulate  fashion  that  was  horrible  to 
hear. 

"Sh-sh-h-h,  be  quiet!"  Pierrek  said,  fiercely,  remem 
bering  by  some  unwelcome  trick  of  the  brain  Gouillas' 
performances  a  few  hours  earlier,  and  in  sudden  over 
powering  restlessness  he  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the 
room,  with  the  foot  that  bore  the  little  starry  cicatrice 
still  unshod. 

Ah,  that  cry! — that  was  what  half -consciously  he  had 

268 


GRAY    MIST 

been  waiting  for!  From  somewhere  in  the  garden  it  cut 
the  quiet  air,  short  and  sharp,  with  a  supreme  intensity 
of  fury — and  something  else  besides  that  made  Pierrek 
shiver  with  a  horror  of  wonder  and  despair.  "I  cannot 
...  I  cannot,"  he  cried,  and  pushing  back  a  chair  that 
fell  with  a  crash  to  the  ground,  he  reached  the  window 
at  a  bound,  placed  one  hand  on  the  sill,  and  vaulted  to 
the  flagged  path  below. 

"What  did  he  say? — what  did  he  say?"  Mari-Gwezek 
exclaimed,  jumping  up  from  her  knees,  and  Koader,  rais 
ing  her  swollen,  tear-smeared  face  from  the  prie-Dieu, 
clutched  the  old  woman's  dress,  and  dragging  her  down, 
whispered  in  her  ear  what  she  did  not  trust  herself  to  tell 
aloud. 

Her  little  brown  hands  uplifted,  her  thin  fingers  work 
ing  as  if  they  strove  to  strangle  an  invisible  something  in 
mid-air,  Mari-Gwezek  stumbled  back,  and  then,  her  face 
convulsed  with  excitement,  she  rushed  towards  the  door, 
but  before  she  could  open  it,  it  flew  back  with  a  violence 
that  sent  the  glass  of  a  large  water-color  picture  hanging 
just  behind  showering  in  a  thousand  tinkling  pieces  upon 
the  floor,  and  Faik  ran  into  the  room,  followed  by  the 
entreating,  expostulating  priest. 

"Where  is  Pierrek?"  she  cried,  in  a  strange,  hoarse  key, 
her  teeth  knocking  together  with  a  little,  continuous 
click.  "Where  is  Pierrek?" 

"Be  quiet,  my  little  dove,  be  quiet!"  poor  Mari-Gwezek 
interposed,  with  tears  pouring  down  her  old  cheeks,  but 
Faik.  did  not  even  hear  her.  Her  eyes  were  alive  with  a 
light  that  it  was  not  good  to  see,  and  with  a  mechanical 
regularity  maddening  to  watch,  she  kept  pushing  the 
little,  red-gold  curls  back  against  her  coiffe. 

"He  is  hiding,"  she  continued,  peering  in  every  corner 
of  the  large,  low  room — "hiding,  hiding  from  me  ...  he 

269 


GRAY    MIST 

does  not  think  that  I  will  let  him  .  .  .  hide!"  And  then 
she  suddenly  became  aware  of  Koader's  presence,  though 
the  latter  had  instinctively  sought  the  protection  of  the 
darkest  corner,  where  she  stood  cowering  in  abject  terror, 
one  arm  raised  apprehensively  before  her  ashen  face. 

With  a  savage  execration  Faik  turned  on  her.  "Oh! 
don't  be  afraid  ...  I  am  not  going  to  strike  you  ...  I 
can  hurt  you  more  .  .  .  otherwise!"  She  searched  the 
other's  face  with  cruel  deliberation,  and  then,  seizing  her 
roughly  by  the  arm,  dragged  her  forward  in  the  full  light 
of  a  window. 

"You  have  done  this" — there  came  a  curious  catch  in 
the  low,  grating  voice — "this  abomination,  Koader  Le 
Hurec,  to  separate  him  from  me  ...  as  you  think,  for 
ever!  Now,  hear  me!  I  don't  believe  what  you  said, 
but  neither  do  I  care  whether  it  is  true  or  not,  he  is 
mine,  and  will  remain  mine  .  .  .  forever  and  ever.  ...  I 
fear  nothing,  I  am  not  a  coward,  and  half  of  all  the  evil 
you  brought  on  him  to-day,  I  take,  whatever  else  hap 
pens  .  .  .  but  you!" — she  paused  the  mere  space  of  one 
deep  breath,  and  as  she  dropped  Koader's  arm  and 
stepped  back,  the  light  in  her  eyes  was  one  of  baleful 
inspiration — "you" — one  rounded  arm  from  which  the 
wide  sleeve  fell  back  pointed  to  the  shaking,  white-faced 
woman — "you  will  never  have  a  chance  to  forget  what 
you  have  done  to  me,  for  from  this  hour  the  change  will 
come  upon  you  that  I  am  calling  for — little  by  little  and 
creepingly,  so  that  you  can  watch  it!  Oh!  you  can 
moan,"  she  continued,  with  a  fierce  curl  of  her  short 
upper  lip,  "and  moan  you  shall,  for  the  rest  of  your 
days!  In  sleeping  and  waking  you  shall  cry  for  help  to 
God  above  and  the  devil  below,  but  neither  will  help 
you;  disease  and  disfigurement  shall  twist  you  in  agony, 
and  no  relief  shall  you  find!  You  shall  be  humbled  be- 

270 


GRAY    MIST 

fore  the  humblest,  and  trodden  under  foot  by  the  mean 
est.  Rest  you  never  shall,  neither  by  day  nor  by  night. 
Hideous  and  repulsive  shall  you  be  in  the  eyes  of  all,  and 
your  husband's  love  shall  go  from  you.  Children  you 
shall  never  bear  .  .  .  and  all  too  slowly  for  your  desire 
shall  death  crawl  your  way.  Cursed,  cursed,  cursed  in 
this  life,  cursed,  cursed,  cursed  in  the  next  and  forever 
.  .  .  since  death  for  such  as  you  shall  never  come,  neither 
in  this  world  nor  in  the  next  .  .  .  and  your  flesh  shall  rot 
away,  your  bones  shall  crumble,  but  your  spirit  shall  live 
on  and  on,  accursed  without  end!" 

"Faik,  for  pity's  sake!"  the  horrified  priest  implored. 
He  did  not  dare  to  touch  her,  for  fear  of  seeing  her  drop 
dead  at  his  feet,  her  heart  split  by  the  violence  of  her 
fury.  "Faik!" 

The  perspiration  was  running  in  streams  on  Koader's 
lifeless  face,  glazing  it  like  that  of  a  corpse  beneath  the 
ice-dripping  faucets  of  the  Morgue.  Slowly  she  sank  to 
her  knees,  swinging  to  and  fro  like  some  ghastly  senti 
ent  pendulum,  and  all  at  once  she  slid  forward  in  a 
limp,  shapeless  heap,  with  a  leaden  thud  of  her  forehead 
against  the  bare  boards. 

#  *  *  *  *  * 

Late  that  night  M.  Kornog  was  walking  backward 
and  forward  in  his  garden  like  a  sentry  on  duty,  paus 
ing  every  little  while  to  listen.  The  silence  was  pe 
culiarly  intense,  for  there  was  no  wind,  and  in  the  valley 
below  the  very  trees  and  shrubs  were  for  once  strangely 
motionless.  Again  and  again  the  priest  peered  down  the 
dark  gulf,  repeating  to  himself  in  encouragement  the 
message  a  boy  had  brought  him  hours  before:  "Tell 
Monsieur  le  Recteur  that  I  shall  come  to  him  before  mid 
night,"  and  the  keen  eyes  searched  the  path  gleaming 

271 


GRAY    MIST 

faintly  white  amid  the  dense  verdure  of  the  slope.  The 
keen  ears  listened  in  vain  to  every  smallest  sound. 

"Where  can  he  be?"  the  poor  Cure  thought,  staring 
across  the  vast,  night-veiled  bay,  his  square  chin  thrust 
forward,  his  resolute  lips  pressed  tightly  together,  every 
nerve  on  the  alert,  strung  with  the  tension  of  the  last 
eighteen  hours.  At  length  he  heard  the  soft  tread  of 
unshod  feet  approaching  from  the  cemetery  side,  and  he 
drew  a  long  breath  of  relief. 

"Pierrek?"  he  asked,  softly,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

"Yes,  Pierrek!"  the  answer  came,  in  the  same  guarded 
tones,  and  without  another  word  they  met. 

M.  Kornog  silently  led  the  way  to  his  house,  opened 
the  door,  and  preceded  his  visitor,  not  into  the  study, 
but  into  his  own  simply  furnished  bedroom,  the  most 
isolated  and  peaceful  corner  of  this  quiet  dwelling.  He 
drew  forward  a  chair  for  Pierrek,  and  then  himself  sat 
down,  with  that  square  slowness  of  movement  which 
seems  part  and  parcel  of  those  men  who  deal  exclusively 
with  active  life,  and  for  a  moment  gazed  fixedly  at  the 
veiled  lamp  on  the  table,  scarcely  trusting  himself  to 
look  at  Pierrek,  even  in  this  dim  light.  Twice  he  made 
a  little  movement  of  the  lips,  holding  them  tightly  be 
tween  his  teeth  as  he  was  wont  to  do  during  moments  of 
suspense  and  great  anxiety,  and  it  was  Pierrek  who  spoke 
first. 

"Do  not  grieve  for  me,  Monsieur  le  Recteur,"  he  said, 
quietly,  taking  M.  Kornog  entirely  by  surprise.  "You 
will  have  enough  trouble  after  I  am  gone,  without  worry 
ing  about  me!" 

His  splendid  gray  eyes  were  waiting  for  his  old  friend's 
with  a  peculiar  glow  in  their  depths  which  the  Cure"  recog 
nized  at  once.  He  had  seen  it  there  before  on  one  or  two 
occasions,  and  heroism  cannot  pass  unobserved.  Pierrek, 

272 


GRAY    MIST 

he  knew,  was  quite  simple  and  honest  in  what  he  said. 
He  did  not  want  to  personally  cause  more  pain  than  he 
had  already  innocently  done,  so  this  once  made  clear,  he 
turned  to  another  topic. 

' '  I  have  come  to  tell  you  that  I  am  going  away  in  two 
hours,  never  to  come  back  here  again!"  His  eyes  had 
become  fixed  on  some  far  away  imaginary  point,  and  he 
spoke  now  like  one  talking  in  his  dreams.  The  drawn 
face  looked  oddly  colorless  in  that  dim  lamp-shine,  but 
was  surprisingly  calm;  far  more  so  than  the  Cure's,  upon 
whom  the  awful  experiences  of  that  day  had  told  far 
more  than  he  cared  to  let  any  one  see.  Which  is  why  he 
kept  the  lamp  turned  down. 

"Where  will  you  go,  Pierrek?" 

His  lips  again  closed  upon  the  question  with  a  queer 
distressed  little  tremor.  He  dreaded  the  reply,  and  did 
not  even  glance  at  Pierrek.  Also,  he  was  thinking  of  the 
long  summer  days,  the  long  winter  evenings  that  would 
drearily  succeed  each  other  in  an  endless  procession  for 
those  left  behind,  hopeless,  aimless,  useless — filled  with 
unmerited,  but  bitter  and  enduring  shame. 

The  young  man  made  a  hesitating  little  movement 
with  his  right  hand,  and  leaned  forward  in  his  chair. 

"To  Cochin-China,"  he  said,  at  last.  "They  always 
need  crow  bait  there!"  His  steady  eyes  suddenly  blazed 
with  fierce  excitement.  "It  is  the  only  thing  I  can  do!" 
he  said,  speaking  very  quickly.  "I  cannot  see  her 
again.  ..."  His  teeth  shut  down  for  a  second  before 
he  resumed.  "The  shame  to  her  is  too  great  already. 
Now  that  I  know  that  she  too  knows,  I  cannot  see  her 
again.  I  would  have  killed  myself  at  once  this  morning, 
but  I  knew  that  it  would  make  it  worse  for  her.  Like 
this  she  will  have  time  to  ...  to  get  used  to  it.  I  wan 
dered  around  among  the  high  rocks  all  day,  and  at  sun- 

273 


GRAY    MIST 

down,  resting  for  a  moment  behind  a  coast  -  guard's 
guerite,1  I  heard  those  two  new  ones  from  Lorient  talking 
together.  They've  been  there  and  come  back  .  .  .  I — 
won't!  But  never  mind  that.  It  was  a  bit  of  luck  my 
hearing  what  they  said!"  Then  catching  a  gesture  of 
protest  from  the  priest,  and  misunderstanding  it,  he  con 
tinued,  hurriedly:  "Oh!  they  spoke  grandly  of  the  service 
.  .  .  they  .  .  .  said  that  nowhere  in  the  world  is  there  a 
navy  like  ours  .  .  .  and  all  the  ships  are  manned  by  Bre 
tons,  or  nearly  all  ...  and  even  the  Saozons2  are  nowhere 
when  we  come,  it  appears.  So  you  see,  Monsieur  le  Rec- 
teur,  that — you  needn't  pity  me — much!" 

The  Cure*  was  looking  now  at  Pierrek  with  singularly 
bright  eyes,  for  there  was  something  in  the  young  man's 
attitude  which  gave  the  impression  of  assured  strength 
and  unquenchable  courage,  yet  M.  Kornog's  great  heart 
was  aching  with  a  hitherto  unknown  sharpness  of  pain; 
pain  which  he  could  not  and  would  not  show. 

"They  spoke  the  truth!"  he  said,  relieved  to  find  him 
self  for  an  instant  on  the  safe  ground  of  commonplaces. 
"I  heard  an  admiral  once  say  that  we  Bretons  are  the 
backbone  of  the  navy — and  it  seems  that  our  vessels, 
too,  are  superior  to  any  others  afloat!" 

"Carry  more  guns  than  the  Saozons,  and  more  men," 
quoted  Pierrek,  almost  mechanically,  "so  those  coast 
guards  said.  Steam  faster  in  a  heavy  sea,  too,  and  being 
mostly  larger,  can  shoot  straighter!"  3 

Both  men  had  been  marking  time  by  the  aid  of  this 
conversational  intermezzo.  Both  equally  dreaded  what 
there  remained  to  discuss,  to  arrange,  to  agree  upon,  and 

1  Watch  hut.  *  The  English. 

3  The  truth  of  the  above  statements  can  be  ascertained  by 
glancing  at  Brassey's  Annual,  or  any  other  reliable  naval  au 
thority. 

274 


GRAY    MIST 

now  they  sat  quite  still,  until  suddenly  Pierrek  broke 
into  a  short  laugh,  that  stopped  with  sickening  abrupt 
ness. 

"I  hid  in  those  rocks  to-day,"  he  said,  "planning  mur 
der  at  first.  That  woman  .  .  .  O  Christ  .  .  .  she  deserves 
it  ...  I  mean,  to  be  broken  in  two,  like  a  rotten  stick  of 
wood!" 

"That  woman  will  get  her  punishment  without  your 
help!"  the  priest  said,  with  bitter  conviction  .  .  .  and  in 
a  different  tone,  hesitating  a  little  as  he  spoke,  he  con 
tinued:  "Will  you  .  .  .  will  you  say  good-bye  ...  to 
them — your  mother,  and  .  .  .  Faik?" 

"My  mother  .  .  .  and  my  .  .  .  wife!" 

The  bravely  sustained  effort  to  steady  the  voice  be 
came  powerless  there,  and  he  paused  again,  grinding  his 
teeth.  "Yes,"  he  resumed  at  last,  "my  mother  ...  a 
total  stranger  to  me  .  .  .  and  my  wife  .  .  .  !"  With  a 
blasphemy  that  the  priest  did  not  even  notice,  he  rose 
and  smote  his  fist  upon  the  table.  "Is  this  just?  ...  Is 
it  just  to  her  ...  I  won't  speak  of  myself  .  .  .  although  I 
too  am  innocent,  God  knows!  I  am  a  man  and  can 
bear  all  ...  but  she,  what  has  she  done  to  be  pointed 
out  as  a  criminal  .  .  .  she  and  her  children  with  her.  .  .  . 
You  know  us  here;  nobody  will  ever  say  a  decent  word 
to  her  again,  and  scorn  and  shame  and  contempt,  that's 
what  she'll  have  to  endure  forever!  .  .  .  my  Faik  .  .  .  she 
and  the  little  ones,  and  even  you,  Monsieur  le  Recteur, 
even  her  high  and  mighty  uncle  will  be  unable  to  protect 
her  from  these  cruelties!  My  mother  ...  I  must  still 
call  her  that,  I  can't  help  it  ...  will  die  or  go  mad  as 
Mari-Gwezek  said  this  morning  .  .  .  and  that's  the  best 
thing  that  can  happen  to  her,  but  .  .  .  she,  Faik  .  .  .  what 
can  she  do,  where  can  she  go,  tell  me  that,  Monsieur  le 
Recteur?  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  there  is  not  a 

275 


GRAY    MIST 

spot  from  here  to  the  very  ends  of  Brittany  where  she 
can  hide  from  this  .  .  .  this  .  .  .  !" 

He  broke  off,  breathing  hard,  and  M.  Kornog  rose. 
There  were  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  his  mouth  opened 
twice  before  he  could  control  himself  sufficiently  to 
speak. 

"It  is  hard  and  unjust,  and  cruel  .  .  .  horribly  cruel  ..." 
he  said  at  last,  "and  undeserved  as  well,  for  the  only 
culprit  is  myself.  No,  don't  speak,  Pierrek,  it  is  no  use! 
Twenty- two  years  ago  I  connived  in  a  lie.  I  ...  be 
lieving  it  to  be  my  duty,  gave  sanction  to  a  substitution 
that  in  itself  seemed  then  quite  harmless,  but  was  none 
the  less  a  crime.  I  saved  a  woman's  reason  by  so  doing 
.  .  .  perhaps  .  .  .  but  is  she  not  more  completely  doomed 
now,  and,  with  her,  four  wretched  beings  who  also  had  a 
right  to  their  honest  places  beneath  God's  heaven.  I 
yielded  to  a  man's  entreaties,  a  man  pleading  for  his 
wife's  life  ...  his  wife's  tottering  mind.  ...  I  thought 
my  duty  was  sufficiently  accomplished  by  inquiring 
right  and  left  for  a  missing  infant,  and  then  went  quietly 
home  to  take  up  my  daily  task.  And  see  now,  who  is  it 
that  suffers  for  the  shepherd's  laxity  .  .  .  the  sheep,  the 
poor  blind  sheep  who  should  have  been  led  otherwise  .  .  . 
led  in  the  right  path  instead  of  the  wrong!" 

"No,  no  —  don't  say  that,  Monsieur  le  Recteur!" 
Pierrek  implored,  cut  to  the  heart  by  M.  Kornog's 
profound  distress.  "You  did  your  duty  then,  as  you 
have  always  done  towards  us  all!  Never  was  there  such 
a  friend  as  you,  and  it  is  only  because  I  leave  Faik  in 
your  care  that  I  haven't  put  an  end  to  all  of  us — I  mean 
Faik,  myself,  and  the  children,  too,  this  very  day!" 
The  sweat  stood  on  his  forehead,  for  at  that  instant  he 
seemed  to  hear  once  more  that  terrible  cry  of  Faik!  In 
a  couple  of  swift  strides  he  crossed  over  to  the  window 

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GRAY    MIST 

and  leaned  out.  It  was  almost  a  shock  to  him  to  find 
everything  so  quiet,  the  cool  night  air  softly  caressing 
the  ivy-leaves  beneath  the  sill,  and  the  great  border  of 
white  carnations  feather-like  and  a  little  ghostly  in  the 
transparent  star  -  lit  dusk.  Beyond  the  cliffs  the  sea 
could  be  faintly  heard,  rolling  ever  so  gently  upon  the 
pebbly  beach,  the  soft  breeze  sporting  above  it  with  the 
skirts  of  the  darkness,  and  again  he  seemed  to  hear  that 
cry.  Was  it  going  to  haunt  him  like  that  forever  now, 
piercing  him  each  time  to  the  very  soul — that  cry  with 
its  quivering  undernote  of  despair  and  of  eternal  re 
proach  ? 

Noiselessly  M.  Kornog  had  followed  him,  and  sud 
denly  he  put  an  arm  about  his  shoulders,  drawing  him 
firmly  back  into  the  room. 

"Courage,  Pierrek,"  he  said.  "We  need  a  great  deal 
of  it  to-night,  both  you  and  I — for  I,  too,  have  a  heavy 
cross  to  bear!  I  have  loved  you  like  a  son,  my  boy,  and 
now  we  must  part— perhaps  forever.  Remember  that  I 
will  care  for  Faik,  for  her  children,  and  for  Lanaik,  as 
long  as  life  lasts.  They  will  always  come  first  with  me 
—before  all  else." 

For  an  instant  the  two  men  looked  down  into  each 
other's  souls,  and  Pierrek  saw  the  priest's  eyes  soften 
into  such  a  wonderful  grief  and  tenderness  that  his  heart 
melted  for  the  first  time  that  day,  and  falling  on  one 
knee  he  buried  his  face  in  the  black  folds  of  the  soutane, 
weeping  like  a  child.  Not  a  word  did  M.  Kornog 
utter  at  first,  but  his  folded  hands  rested  on  the  bowed 
head,  and  his  lips  moved  faintly.  Presently  he  bent 
down  and  began  whispering  very  low.  Gradually  the 
terrible  sobs  slackened  and  then  ceased.  Pierrek  was 
listening,  listening — and  as  he  listened  he  seemed  to  see 
the  bitter,  cruel  present  recede  as  though  his  journey  had 

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GRAY    MIST 

already  begun,  and  he  was  looking  back  upon  those  left 
behind,  in  good  hands.  What  he  heard  was  not  of  earth, 
or  of  this  world  at  all,  and  just  then  it  was  the  only 
thing  he  could  have  borne. 


CHAPTER    XX 

Lord  of  the  Mist  upon  the  sea, 

Lord  of  the  Sea  from  shore  to  shore, 

We  know  Thy  veil  of  mystery, 

We  know  Thy  waves,  and  nothing  more. 

We  hear  Thy  surges  spouting  loud 
On  hidden  reefs  when  winds  are  still, 

And  though  we  quiver  in  the  cloud, 
We  know  them  servants  to  Thy  will. 

The  fringes  of  Thy  mantle  are 

A  pall  of  dread  to  such  as  we, 
O  draw  them  with  Thy  hand  afar, 

Give  us  more  oft  a  smiling  sea! 

Crush  not  our  little  strength  and  frail! 

Hast  Thou  not  framed  us  every  one? 
Loose  forth  again  Thy  clearing  gale, 

Shine  out  once  more  Thy  quickening  sun! 

Flamed  from  whose  glory  we  shall  view 
The  heavens  upborne  upon  one  span, 

And  Faith  resurgent  nerve  anew 

The  arm  to  strive,  the  brain  to  plan. 

And  when  upon  their  final  sleep 
The  billows  sink  at  Thy  behest, 

To  us  the  toilers  of  Thy  deep 
Grant,  Lord  of  All,  eternal  rest! 

O  Domine  Nebular um. — M.  M. 

SEA  and  sky  were  all  a-tangle  in  the  soft  meshes  of  a 
silver -gray  mist  —  comme  en  Bretagne  —  a  pearly  fog  veil 
ing  the  shifting  floors  of  water  beneath,  and  filling  the 

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GRAY    MIST 

atmosphere  about  the  armored  cruiser  Magicienne,  with 
scarf  upon  scarf  of  gauze  that  strayed  lazily  hither  and 
thither  before  melting  finally  into  the  great  nothingness 
of  beyond. 

Swiftly  the  Magicienne  ran  in  spite  of  it,  for  in  front 
of  her  stretched  nothing  now  save  empty,  stupendous 
solitudes.  Long  since  had  the  crouching  lion  of  Gib 
raltar,  the  rocky  headlands  of  Sicily  and  the  oily,  warm 
waters  of  the  Red  Sea  been  left  behind.  In  her  wake 
the  thin  white  scarfs  sagged  down  a-top  of  those  smooth, 
regular  undulations  that  gently  rocked  the  huge  vessel — 
broad  gleaming  backs,  sleek  and  gray  as  glass,  that 
shouldered  one  another  beneath  her  shearing  keel,  and 
let  her  glide  with  the  same  eternal  regularity  of  motion 
from  whispering  slope  to  whispering  slope. 

Overhead  the  trade-winds  were  just  beginning  to  mur 
mur  to  the  rigging  that  melancholy  little  song  of  theirs 
that  sounds  as  mournful  and  ethereal  as  though  the 
chords  of  some  great  aeolian-harp  were  being  continually 
caressed  by  an  especially  tender  touch.  All  notion  of 
time  would  have  seemed  a  thing  forgotten,  had  it  not 
been  for  the  half -hourly  slow  rhythm  of  the  look-out's 
call  away  out  for'ard.  Behind  the  meteor -trail  of 
white  gauziness  following  the  ship  the  mist  ceaselessly 
reformed  into  indolent  volutes,  imponderate,  and  yet 
opaque  to  the  eye,  like  the  shivering  white  curtain  in 
front. 

Silent  and  indifferent  Pierrek  watched  these  tender 
gray  vapors  from  the  cross-trees — his  assigned  perch  as 
gabier  de  misaine.  He  did  not  know  the  spot  where  once 
more  his  foot  would  touch  solid  earth — sailors  are  not 
told  such  things  beforehand  —  and  little  did  he  care! 
There  or  thereabouts  .  .  .  what  mattered  .  .  .  since  re 
turn  he  never  would! 

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GRAY    MIST 

His  grave,  gray  eyes  turned  occasionally  to  the  bow 
sprit,  always  forging  ahead,  with  its  two  small  horns,  like 
slender  antennae,  gracefully  fretting  the  skin  of  each  silky 
surge,  its  neat  profile  recalling  a  sternly  bent  cross-bow, 
pointing  towards  the  Infinite;  but  more  often  yet  did  he 
gaze  back  upon  the  invisible  point  of  the  wide  horizon 
where  he  divined  his  Brittany,  and  slowly  then  he  would 
make  a  furtive  sign  of  the  cross  .  .  .  corrected  at  once  by 
a  faint  smile — to  dispel  presentiments! 

He  lived  up  there  in  the  "tops,"  from  which  he  rarely 
came  down  of  his  own  accord.  There  he  kept  his  treas 
ures,  Faik's  picture  and  Arzel's,  Lanaik's  and  Tamek's — 
a  little  silver  crucifix  bought  at  the  first  Pardon  after  his 
marriage — a  rosary  given  to  him  at  the  parting  minute 
by  M.  Kornog  —  and  that  bannerette  of  delicate  white 
and  green  whereon  the  triumphant  head  of  Ahes  was 
traced  —  together  with  two  or  three  other  things  that 
were  to  him  all  the  past. 

From  this  tiny  refuge  he  saw  the  snowy  deck  of  the 
Magicienne  slanting  and  swinging  in  her  onward  race  like 
some  monstrous  flying-fish  of  extraordinary  whiteness, 
and  to-day  amid  all  the  shifting  grayness  that  submerged 
the  world,  he  glanced  more  often  than  usual  with  a  pass 
ing  smile — his  old  contemptuous  one  this  time — at  the 
slim  streak  of  gleaming  black — a  mere  pencil  scratch  on  a 
white  sheet — following  the  ship,  and  shaped  like  it,  that 
was  its  ever-attending  shark! 

It,  too,  like  Pierrek,  waited,  waited  always,  rising  and 
falling  like  the  great  ship,  and  like  her  coming  down  into 
the  seas  with  a  clear  sickle-like  swoop,  but  entre  deux 
eaux,  with  behind  that  relentless,  unwearying  pursuit  the 
gray  mist  monotonously  shutting  down,  slowly  and  silent 
ly,  as  a  shroud. 

And  for  Pierrek  to-day  was  like  yesterday,  to-morrow 

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GRAY    MIST 

would  be  like  to-day,  the  lapses  of  the  hours  succeeding 
each  other  inexorably;  until  the  great  gray  mist  that 
closes  at  last  over  us  all  should  fold  its  pitying  wings 
mercifully  around  him. 


THE    END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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